


A Fruit Tree in Winter

by Anonymous



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Sex, M/M, Swearing, hurt/comfort., non-explicit references to past torture/violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 20:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4320081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After failing in his task of killing Dumbledore, life doesn’t go as Draco expected. Sometimes just surviving takes everything you’ve got. And sometimes healing is something you can’t do alone. Story goes AU/AR from the end of Half-Blood Prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chyldofeternity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chyldofeternity/gifts).



> Beta: tray_la_la, dysron_rules  
> Britpick: franalan, georgia_hawkins
> 
> Written for chyldofeternity as part of the hds_beltane exchange on LiveJournal. I was lucky enough to get a very open prompt from chyldofeternity. The elements I used from his request were: H/D, Mentor! Snape in a non-sexual capacity, a story with plot where the h/d relationship develops as part of the plot, Hogwarts-Era/ Post-Hogwarts, smut, oral sex, flangst with a happy ending (there is one, I promise), AU’s welcome. Prompts included were: mystery (it’s kind of there if you squint) and blizzard.
> 
> Thank you so much to my collaborating artist, _aurora_sky_, who accepted an unforgivably late invitation to play and produced some incredible, incredible work and kept me inspired with her beautiful drawings.

A Fruit Tree in Winter

 

  
_Sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter._  
Who would think that those branches would turn  
green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.  
\- Goethe 

 

.I – Freeze

.i

**July 1997**

Even before the first Cruciatus hit him, Draco knew he would scream. Once, maybe even just a few weeks ago, he might have been able to pretend otherwise, pretend he was brave enough, strong enough, to take the pain noiselessly. But that had been before the Astronomy Tower, before he had stood, frozen, and failed to do the one thing that could save his family.

He was a coward and he knew it.

But when the wand levelled at him and the pain hit, he realised that it was a moot point, anyway. Even if he’d been braver, he still would have screamed. Anyone would have. Anyone.

***

When Draco awoke, he was in his own bed. He sat up slowly, mindful of the throbbing ache in his body, and looked around. He appeared to be alone. He listened carefully, but heard no one in the hall, no harsh whispers between his parents, no wailing house-elves, no screaming Bella.

He stared at the walls, unsure what to do. What did one do after being tortured by a lunatic in front of one’s parents? He had no idea what was expected of him, and worse, no idea what his strategy should be. Should he go downstairs, sit at the dinner table as if nothing had happened? Should he wait here until summoned? Should he call for a house-elf, inform his parents he was awake?

Draco’s eyes darted around the room and a familiar pressure began to build in his chest, pushing against his lungs, making it hard to breathe. A sob wracked through him before he could stop it and he clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified. He couldn’t leave his room in this condition, panicked and barely in control of himself. Yet, the longer he stayed here, the more likely they would guess his weakness and who knew what would happen then? The Dark Lord did so enjoy exploiting weaknesses...

He didn’t know how long he sat there in his bed, watching shadows stretch across his walls as afternoon gave way to evening. Eventually, though, there was a small knock at his door and a house-elf entered. The elf carried a tray laden with food and a small bouquet of white roses. The roses were a secret message from Draco’s mother, her signal that all was well.

Draco relaxed back into his bed at the sight of them. He didn’t need to pretend. Not for tonight, anyway.

***

As days turned into weeks, Draco began to think it might all be okay. Not only was he still alive, he’d only suffered the one session of Cruciatus as reprimand for his failure with Dumbledore. For the most part, the Dark Lord seemed content to ignore him. Oh, he tested Draco now and again to be sure, made Draco do things that shook him to his very core, but he seemed to have little interest in further punishing Draco or his parents. Draco almost felt safe, or as safe as he could feel with a madman living in his house and his crazy aunt howling her way through the halls, looking for ways to prove herself to their master.

So he was unprepared when it all changed.

It happened quickly. One moment he was sitting in his room, flipping through an old Quidditch magazine and trying to pretend he and his parents were alone in their house, the next Bella was bursting through his doors, seizing him by the hair and dragging him down the hall. She threw him down the staircase. He bounced down the steps painfully. He had little time to take in the scene, only dimly registering his mother’s tear-stained face and his father’s stony expression before the pain was on him, _in_ him, and he was screaming, screaming again.

***

It was always dark where they held him, the stone floor always cold. Draco suspected he was in his own dungeons, deep underground Malfoy Manor, but he’d only been inside them once, many years ago, so he couldn’t be sure. Sometimes he slept, more often he just lost consciousness. Twice, he woke and was somewhere else, somewhere with smooth wood floors and a smell he didn’t recognise, one that made him think maybe he wasn’t in the manor after all. Not that it mattered, really. Wherever this room was, it only held blood and pain and screaming.

He had no visitors there in the dark, save the ones who came to shove an occasional tray of food at him. There were times, though, when he could swear he felt cool, gentle hands move across his face and the soft brush of magic over his skin. There were times he was sure he heard his mother’s voice whispering, “Hold on, my love. I will get you out of here, no matter what the cost.” But the pain made everything confused and he could never be certain it wasn’t just a dream.

***

The sound reached him slowly, a strange, lilting melody that seeped into the darkness and pulled him into consciousness. It was almost too loud, too sharp, but there was something soothing about its simplicity, something unforced about its trilling dips and climbs.

Draco lay still and let song wash over him, trying to stave off the growing pain gnawing at him as he came fully awake. It was no good, though. Even the beauty of the birdsong couldn’t hold back the sharp spikes of –

Birdsong.

The realisation drove away the last clinging tendrils of sleep and, even though his eyes remained closed, he was suddenly aware of his surroundings. The air was stale and musty, but there was none of the stink that permeated the dungeons, that mix of piss and shit and blood and fear. The floor beneath him, while cold and hard, was wood, not stone. Rough wood, too, old and splintered, not the scoured smooth wood floors of the torture chamber. And through his eyelids he could see the blood-filtered glow of sunlight.

He was somewhere new.

Draco struggled to open his swollen eyelids and immediately regretted it. Bright light seared his retinas, afterimages of bold colour lasting for long moments afterwards. He did not try again, instead listening for the sound of people in the vicinity. He heard the birds, the quiet creaks and groans of the building, but no movement. No shuffling of feet or brushing of robe hems against the floor. No soft breathing or angry whispers.

He was alone, then, wherever he was. For the moment, anyway. He had little doubt some Death Eater would be along soon to torture him for the Dark Lord’s amusement. Besides, it didn’t really matter where he was. He could hurt just as easily here as anywhere.

Still, it was better than the dungeons, Draco thought, and focused again on the sound of the birdsong and the feeling of sunlight on his face.

***

When Draco woke again it was dark. He was quite sure he was lying in the same spot he had been before. He didn’t seem to have changed positions at all.

Thirst was clawing at his throat and his tongue felt thick and leathery. He didn’t want to move – moving always hurt more than lying still – but he knew he needed to drink something soon.

Slowly, gingerly, he pushed himself to sitting, the sleep-dulled pain in his body growing sharp and bright with each movement. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings.

He appeared to be in a small cottage. It was somewhat rustic, made of stone and wood, with broad-planked floors and a large fireplace. The room was large and open with many windows and a small kitchen tucked into one corner. The furniture was sparse and simple – two armchairs flanking the fireplace, a worn sofa near where Draco lay on the floor, and a pine table with matching chairs underneath the far window. A small hallway stretched out toward the back of the cottage, presumably leading to a bedroom or two.

It was a wizard’s cottage, judging from the cauldron hanging in the fireplace and the broomstick in the corner, but Draco could surmise little else about its owner from the contents. There were no pictures on the walls, no photographs on the mantlepiece. There were no personal effects at all, aside from the broomstick and an old woolen blanket thrown over the back of the sofa.

Getting to the kitchen took some work; his body was weak and resented his demands that it move. Standing long enough to find a glass and fill it from the tap was even more work – his legs shook and threatened to buckle at any second – but the water was delicious. He forced himself to sip slowly. When he finished the first glass, he waited as long as he could stand it before pouring another.

Once he’d drunk his fill, he discovered he was too tired to make it back to the sofa and instead he curled up and fell asleep on the kitchen floor.

 

 

***

“Never underestimate the Dark Lord,” Draco’s father had told him on more than one occasion.

His father had been speaking of the Dark Lord’s power and cunning, of course, but the words could just as easily be applied to his foulness and cruelty. The Dark Lord liked to play games, dark twisted games that ended in madness or death.

Sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the pantry, Draco couldn’t shake the feeling he was in the middle of one such game at that very moment.

As best as Draco could figure, he’d been in the cottage for three days. Three days in which he’d seen or heard from no one. Granted, he’d been unconscious or asleep for much of that time, but he was certain no one had been in. The floor was covered with a thick layer of dust, disturbed only by Draco’s own footprints.

All the doors and windows of the cottage were magically sealed. Draco had discovered that right away. Whoever had brought him here didn’t want him leaving. They also, apparently, didn’t want him to have a wand. He’d searched through every drawer and cupboard, but found nothing. In fact, the place seemed to be almost entirely empty. The bookshelves beside the fireplace were bare. The kitchen held only a few pots and pans and some mismatched dishes. There was no soap in the bathroom, nor shampoo. There were no clothes in the bedroom wardrobes. There wasn’t even a scrap of parchment or a spare quill lying about. There was nothing.

Except for a fully stocked pantry and a well-supplied medicine cabinet.

The perfect set-up. Take the injured, half-starved prisoner, lock him in the cottage and wait for him to try to heal himself, wait for him to eat. Who knew what was in those phials in the bathroom? Who knew what was in the seemingly normal jars of food in the pantry? Who knew what was safe to touch, what was safe to eat?

Only the Dark Lord.

Or maybe Draco was just fucking with his own mind, the pain and hunger making him paranoid.

If only he knew. If only, if only...

Draco pressed a hand against his empty stomach, trying to push away the hollow pains that stabbed at him. His other hand reached out towards a jar of peaches sitting on the pantry shelf, but then stopped half-way there and hung limply in the air.

If only, if only...

He was so fucking hungry.

If only he knew who had brought him here, friend or foe. If only he knew what they wanted from him.

The peaches looked soft and sweet in their jar. He could almost taste them, almost feel the syrup slipping down his throat.

He was so fucking _hungry_.

He was hardly aware of what he was doing. There was no moment of choice, no conscious decision. One minute he was sitting there, hand outstretched, and the next his fingers were closing around the smooth glass jar. It was if it was someone else’s hand pulling it down from the shelf, someone else twisting off the lid, someone else shoving the sticky slices of fruit into his mouth as fast as possible. He was aware of the taste though, the burst of sweetness on his tongue, and the rush of relief as he swallowed, the way his whole body suddenly relaxed. He meant to just eat one piece, to stop after and wait to see what happened, but he couldn’t. He just kept eating and eating, almost swallowing the slices whole, until the jar was empty.

He forced himself to wait then. He watched the clock on the kitchen wall, watched the seconds ticking by. His stomach gurgled ominously but nothing else happened. No strange rashes or boils, no transfiguring into a toad or a steaming pile of shit, no urge to cut out his own tongue or drown kittens or whatever other sick things the Dark Lord might make up for him to do. And, most importantly, no dying.

No dying.

With a shaky grin, Draco reached out at random for a second jar, pulling it off the shelf. Tomatoes. He unscrewed the lid, pulled out a tomato and put it into his mouth whole. The juices seeped out when he bit into it, dribbling down his chin. He didn’t even bother to wipe them away as he reached for a second. It took him less than two minutes to empty the jar.

Draco’s eyes were scanning the pantry shelves, trying to decide what to eat next when his stomach spasmed. He barely made it up onto his hands and knees before he threw up spectacularly. He heaved six times, making loud retching noises as he emptied his stomach. Vomit seemed to be everywhere, splattering all over Draco’s clothes and puddling on the floor.

It was over as quickly as it started. Draco stayed on his hands and knees, drawing in great shuddering breaths, waiting to see what would happen next, if he was going to die after all.

A minute went by, then another, then another. Draco shifted away from the mess and collapsed on the floor. He watched the clock. The minutes passed, turning into an hour and then two.

Not poison then. Just his own idiocy at thinking he could eat that much that quickly after days of starving, after his weeks in the dungeon where he’d barely been fed.

His eyes went to the puddle of vomit, the chunks of fruit barely chewed, never mind digested.

 _I should just put them back in the jar_ , he thought and a small, hysterical laugh escape him.

For the first time in his life, he cleaned up vomit without a wand.

***

Several hours later, Draco lay on the sofa, cocooned in the old blanket, watching out the window as the last of the sun’s rays disappeared from the sky, bright stars blinking into place in their absence. He could feel his eyelids starting to droop and he struggled against it. He hated falling asleep, hated the idea that someone could arrive and catch him unawares. Not that he had any idea what he could do to stop them, awake or asleep. He had no wand and he was still badly injured. He had a knife from the kitchen, though, that he kept with him at all times. Small comfort against the spectre of a Death Eater with torture on his mind, perhaps, but it was better than nothing.

With a defeated sigh, Draco shut his eyes. He let himself drift into that place that was not quite awake but not quite sleeping, his mind racing out in all directions, the thoughts nonsensical and tangential. His body relaxed into the sofa.

In the quiet of the cottage, the soft pop of Apparition was like a gunshot. Draco shot to his feet, the blanket tangling around him, threatening to knock him back down. Fear was in his mouth, sharp and sour like bile. Bracing himself, he turned to see who had arrived.

At first, all he saw was the dark cloak and dark hair. Draco peered through the gloom, trying to make out the man’s face. His eyes strained in the darkness, but he could see clearly enough. He took in the sallow complexion, the large nose, the dark eyes that locked on Draco like a predator on its prey.

Snape.

“I see you’ve managed to keep yourself alive,” Snape said as way of greeting.

Draco said nothing, his mind whirling. Friend or foe? Snape was the Dark Lord’s most trusted servant these days. He’d killed Dumbledore. And yet he’d been Draco’s teacher, Head of House, mentor. He’d been Draco’s friend...

“Your injuries.” Snape’s words snapped Draco back to the present. “How are they?”

Draco just stared, unsure of the right course of action.

Snape frowned. “I asked you a question.”

“I think I have a few broken ribs.” Draco’s voice came out soft and unsteady. “And there’s a cut on my leg that looks infected.”

With a snap of robes and a few large strides, Snape was in front of Draco, grasping Draco’s chin and tilting his face to examine the bruises there. “Why didn’t you use the potions in the bathroom?”

_If only, if only..._

“I...I wasn’t sure what was allowed.”

Snape stared at him for a long moment, his eyes hard and angry, and then he turned and stalked down the hallway towards the bathroom. He returned moments later with several potions.

Snape took a seat on the sofa. “Come.”

Draco sat carefully beside him.

Several _Episkeys_ made short work of healing his broken ribs. Snape applied a salve to Draco’s wounded leg and another to his many cuts and bruises. Then he handed Draco several phials. “The blue one is a pain potion. Take it no more than twice a day. The yellow is to counteract any remaining infection. Take it every morning for the next four days. Do you think you can manage that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape rose and made his way to the small kitchen. Within a few minutes, the mouth-watering odour of simmering onions and garlic drifted over to Draco. A quick glance over revealed boiling pasta and a cutting board full of chopped tomatoes and peppers.

Snape was cooking.

Draco stared down at the phials in his hand; his relief was so intense his eyes watered.

***

Snape stayed that night and the next. He kept an eye on Draco’s healing and taught him the basics of food preparation. He brought Draco a small mountain of books, a well-stocked potion-making kit, playing cards, and even art supplies. Draco almost laughed when he saw the box of acrylics, watercolours and brushes. He’d never held a paintbrush in his life. His laughter never made it past his lips though, disappearing when he realised what it meant. Snape was giving him gifts to pass the time. Draco was going to be there a while.

Snape also brought him a wand.

“I couldn’t bring your own wand,” Snape said as he handed it Draco. “It’s been locked up and it would be too much of a risk to retrieve it. I found this one in your mother’s room. I believe it is a family wand.”

“Thank you.” Draco ran his fingers over the smooth wood and felt an answering brush of magic. Not like his own, but it was still something. “Professor Snape?”

“Draco, we are not at Hogwarts and are not likely to be again. I am no longer your professor. You may call me Severus.”

Draco nodded. “What am I doing here? What happened?”

“Your mother was plotting your escape and she was letting her fear for your safety make her sloppy,” Snape said, his tone sharp with disapproval. “If I hadn’t stepped in, she likely would have got you both killed. I removed you from your cell and brought you here so she would cease her foolish behaviour.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know. Your mother disappeared shortly after I brought you here.”

“Is the Dark Lord looking for her?”

“He is.”

Snape didn’t need to elaborate. Draco knew what would happen to his mother if the Dark Lord ever found her.

“And me?”

Snape fixed Draco with another of his piercing looks. “The Dark Lord was certainly displeased with your disappearance. If he hears even a whisper of your whereabouts, your life is forfeit. However, you are of negligible concern to him at the moment. Moreover, this house is under a Fidelius Charm. I am the Secret Keeper. No one else knows where you are. You have little cause for worry for the time being.”

“You really did save me, then,” Draco said softly.

Snape frowned. “I think that infection has reached your brain.”

Draco ignored the jibe. “Thank you.”

“You and your mother have caused me more trouble than you’re worth,” Snape said, sneering, but his hand brushed briefly against Draco’s shoulder before he stood. “I have to get back. I cannot be away for extended periods of time. It would only raise suspicions about my involvement in your disappearance.”

“When will you come back?”

“When I can. In the meantime, you have everything you need here. The pantry is self-replenishing, as is the medicine cabinet to some extent.” Snape pulled a small pad of paper and quill out of his pocket. “If you have need of anything, write it on this and it should reach you within a day or two. I’ll remove the locking spell from the cottage. You’re free to come and go as you please, but remember, the Fidelius Charm will only protect you as long as you’re in the house. And should you choose to leave altogether... I will not save you a second time.”

“I understand,” Draco said with a nod. He had no intention of leaving the cottage any time soon. “What if I need to get a hold of you?”

“You can’t. I can’t risk messages coming at inopportune moments.”

Draco nodded again. The conversation seemed to be over as Snape moved toward the kitchen and began pulling ingredients from the pantry. Dinner. Draco joined him, wordlessly accepting the carrots Snape handed to him for peeling and chopping. They did not speak as they worked, but it was a comfortable silence. Time passed too quickly for his Draco’s liking, though, and before he knew it, they were sitting down at the table.

Draco allowed himself a small sigh as he picked up his fork. He wondered how long it would be before he had a chance to share a meal with someone again.

***

 

.ii

**January 1998**

Draco sat at the window, watching the setting sun glinting off the snow that had collected along the outside sill and stuck to the glass. It was pretty, really. He’d never paid much attention to the change of seasons before. Of course, growing up, it hadn’t been so dramatic. There wasn’t much ice and snow in Wiltshire. Hogwarts had got its fair share, but he’d always been too preoccupied with other things to notice how beautiful it could be, the way ice could cling to branches and winter berries, turning them into sparkling sculptures, the way grey shadows shaded to blue on sweeping snow banks. The way everything would go quiet when the snow fell in fat flakes, a thick curtain that seemed to block out the world for a while. And he’d never give much thought to the way life moved underground for the winter, small animals holing up in their burrows, plants pulling back to bulbs, letting the earth and snow cover them, sealing them in until it was safe to emerge once more.

Here, though, it was hard not to notice. Beyond the small garden, the cottage was surrounded by woods, the constant press of nature all around him. It had been green and lush when Draco had first arrived, full of chattering animals and wildflowers. On the rare occasion that he ventured outside – he was ever mindful of the limits of Fidelius - the animals would freeze, watching him, trying to make sense of the new presence in their world. Then autumn had come and the leaves had flared brilliantly before falling solemnly, inevitably, as winter crept in. Sometimes there were blizzards, the wind howling through the trees, the swirling snow whiting out the world beyond his window. Sometimes it was clear, the sun on the snow so bright he could hardly bear to look at it.

Spring would come soon enough, Draco supposed. All of the life now hidden away down in the darkness would burst forth again in a chaotic blend of colour, pollen, and nattering voices. For now though, he was content with the winter. He was content to burrow in and let the snow cover him, too.

***

_Hands were on him, seizing him by the shoulders, picking him up and hurling him forward. He staggered, trying to get his feet under him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t get his limbs to do what he wanted them to and so he fell, crashing painfully onto the floor. Laughter echoed around him._

_“Ah, Draco,” someone said and it was_ that _voice, cold and high and terrifying. It was_ him _. “How nice of you to join us today. It’s always so much fun when we’re all together, don’t you think?”_

_More laughing. Someone made a crude joke about the kind of fun they’d like to be having with Draco. Draco didn’t dare look up to see who it was._

_The talking continued, the jokes getting steadily dirtier and more explicit, the laughter getting louder. Then it cut off abruptly. Someone was walking toward him. He could hear footsteps and the sound of a robe hem brushing against the floor. He didn’t have to look. He knew who it was._

_The Dark Lord crouched down. He crooked a finger underneath Draco’s chin, forcing him to look up._

_“A bit boring, isn’t it?” the Dark Lord said, a note of disappointment in his voice. “My Death Eaters are loyal but they’re not terribly creative. I’m sure you and I can come up with_ much _more interesting ways to make you scream.”_

_A wand came out and pointed at Draco’s eye, so close he could feel the tip of it brush against his eyelashes. He heard the Dark Lord whispering an incantation and then his world exploded with pain and he was screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming –_

Draco bolted awake, his scream still echoing in the dark of the bedroom.

These goddamned nightmares. Were they never going to end?

He kicked his way out of his sweaty sheets and sat on the edge of his bed, heart pounding. He let his head fall into his hands, fingers tangling in his damp hair. His body twitched with remembered pain. Draco took long, deep breaths, willing himself to calm.

It was only a dream. He was safe. It was only a dream.

A dream that could all too easily become reality again, though, if he were to leave Severus’s cottage...

Draco stood and made his way to the kitchen. Once there, he poured himself a large glass of water. He drank it slowly, focusing on the coolness of it as it washed through his mouth and slid down his throat. He poured another. He kept drinking until his throat no longer felt raw and ragged, until he could no longer feel the screams lodged there. Then he went into the bathroom and searched through the medicine cabinet until he found what he was looking for.

Dreamless Sleep.

He uncorked the phial and drank the potion quickly. He’d had enough bad dreams for the night. He’d had enough bad dreams for a lifetime.

***

Draco sat in the armchair and stared out the window. He’d dragged it over there hours ago, when the bad weather had first started. Curled up with the woolen blanket, he’d watched as the sky darkened and the wind picked up, watched as lazy, drifting snowflakes gave way to driving sheets of snow. Now, the outside world was barely visible. All he could see of the woods surrounding the cottage was the odd glimpse of a tree, a dark shadow that appeared suddenly in the white and then disappeared just as quickly. Even the fence that ran around the garden was hard to make out, its wooden posts little more than faint streaks of brown against the white.

The wind howled and shrieked and every now and then Draco heard the sound of branches breaking. He’d never endured such a storm without the solid bulk of Hogwarts protecting him. It was terrifying and awe-inspiring in a primal sort of way. He knew he should probably move away from the windows, probably go to a safer part of the house to wait things out, but he couldn’t tear himself away. He sat by the window and watched as the world turned white, watched as, little by little, it all disappeared.

***

When Severus arrived, Draco was sitting at his easel trying to decide whether his winter landscape looked like anything other than green and white blobs vomited onto a canvas.

Severus cast an eye in his direction. “You’ve improved,” he commented, the corner of his mouth threatening to twitch into a grin.

“It’s having all this time to practice. My innate talent is flourishing,” Draco deadpanned. Severus gave him a considering look but Draco waved away his own comment. “Any news on my mother?”

It was always his first question when Severus arrived.

“No, but there is news.”

Severus’s tone was serious; Draco set down his brush and turned to face him, eyebrows raised in silent inquiry.

“Your father. I’m sorry, Draco. Your father is dead.”

The words struck him like a physical blow to the chest. Draco found himself suddenly hunched forward, struggling to draw breath.

When he didn’t move for several long moments, Severus took a step forward. “Draco?”

“How?” Draco managed to wheeze out.

“The Dark Lord sent him on a mission. He did not return.”

“So he could just be missing?”

Severus shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Had he survived, he would have returned.”

Draco frowned, trying to make sense of it. “I don’t understand. How can you be sure?”

“I can’t tell you the details at the moment. Perhaps when the situation changes, it will be different, but for now it would be dangerous for you to know.”

Draco stared at Severus, incredulous. He couldn’t think of a thing to say in response.

“I am only thinking of your safety,” Severus said, his tone as gentle as Draco had ever heard it.

Draco snorted. “Yes, my safety. Right. Because I’m in such danger here. Who knows what the birds might overhear! Maybe the rabbits living under the shed will run off and tell the Dark Lord that I know all his terrible secrets. What an excellent reason for not telling me how _my fucking father died_!”

If Severus was bothered by Draco’s outburst, he didn’t show it. “I know you are upset –”

“Upset?” Draco laughed bitterly. “Why would I be upset?”

Severus just looked at him, waiting him out. Draco couldn’t decide whether he wanted to punch him or just burst into tears. Eventually, he settled for a heavy sigh and clenching his hands into fists. Severus put a hand on Draco’s shoulder and though Draco didn’t want to find it comforting, he did.

“I am sorry,” Severus said.

Draco shook his head. “Did he suffer? Was it...” He trailed off uncertainly, not sure exactly what he was asking or if he even really wanted to know the answer.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Severus didn’t have an answer for him anyway.

“I don’t know, Draco.”

***

Severus didn’t stay long but it was still too long for Draco’s liking. He wanted nothing more than for the man to leave so he could process the news of his father’s death on his own.

In the end, though, it felt like he did very little processing. He sat by the fire, staring blankly into the flickering flames, trying to understand how his father – his powerful, determined, larger-than-life father, – could be dead. Draco had often considered the fact that his mother might be killed, that he himself might be killed. He’d never thought his father might not survive the war. It didn’t seem possible that someone with that much strength, with that much sheer, bloody-minded _will_ , could just be gone.

And that Draco’s last memory of his father was his impassive face staring down at Draco just before that _Crucio_ hit...

Draco closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory. It stubbornly remained.

Draco made his way to the pantry, rummaging through until he found a bottle of Ogden’s. One way or another, he was done thinking about it for the night.

***

_The hand was soft and warm. It moved gently across his cheek, the touch so tender, Draco wanted to cry._

_“Hold on, my love,” a voice whispered. “I will get you out of here. No matter what the cost.”_

_The hand pulled away. Draco tried to reach after it but he couldn’t move; he was so tired and his body hurt so very much._

_“Hold on my love.” The words were soft, fading into the darkness. “Hold on.”_

Draco jerked awake, his glass tumbling from his hand and shattering on the floor.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d just been sitting, watching the fire. It was stupid of him – he should know by now that the combination of the flickering flames and Firewhisky was enough to knock him out.

He pulled out his wand and waved it at the mess. The broken glass reformed but it looked lumpy and uneven. The whisky had splashed everywhere, spraying across the floor, soaking his sock. He swished his wand, Vanishing the largest puddle. He’d sort the rest out later.

He stumbled to the kitchen and put the misshapen glass in the sink to be dealt with in the morning  
  
Too tired and too drunk to be bothered going all the way down the hall, Draco shuffled over to the sofa and collapsed. Lifting his head seemed too difficult, so instead he lowered one arm to and felt around the floor for the old blanket. Finding it, he snagged the corner, pulled it up and spread it over himself.

 _Hold on, my love_ , his mother’s voice echoed in his head.

 _I’m trying, Mum,_ he thought grimly. _I’m trying._

He closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come quickly and bring no more dreams.

***

 

.iii

**June 1998**

The chattering of birds was what finally drove him into wakefulness. It sounded like there were a thousand starlings perched in the tree outside his window, a cacophony of shrill chirps and shrieks.

To think he’d once liked the sound.

He groped for the hangover potion on his bedside table. Without opening his eyes, he popped the cork and tossed it back. Then he lay back, limp, waiting for the potion to take effect.

Slowly but surely, his headache ebbed and the queasiness in his stomach lessened. When he felt like he could move without vomiting, he untangled his legs from the knot of sheets that encased them and made his way over to his window. Drawing back the plain, cotton curtains, he looked out at the day.

Sunlight was streaming across the garden, setting summer flowers ablaze in a riot of pinks, yellows and purples. The sky was blue and dotted with clouds so white and fluffy they looked like they’d come out of a child’s painting. Two squirrels were playing a merry game of chase, streaking down one tree, across the lawn, and then up another tree, jumping from branch to branch as though weightless.

The whole thing was so perfect it made Draco want to claw his own eyes out. Fucking nature.

He closed the curtains and crawled back into his bed.

***

_Some birthdays_ , Draco thought as eyed the monstrosity in front of him, _were better than others_.

The cake was a disaster. It was lopsided and bumpy and burnt around the edges. The thin, runny icing – itself an unpleasant off-white colour – was streaked with crumbs where Draco had broken the cake’s surface as he frosted it. In fact, the only thing that looked remotely appealing about the thing was the sliced pear he’d put on the top in lieu of proper decoration.

Pathetic.

Beyond pathetic. It was absolutely depressing. Or at least it would have been were it possible for Draco to sink any lower in that regard.

He thought back to the birthday cakes his mother used to have made for him, huge, multi-tiered creations with candied fruit and curls of chocolate and live fairies that would sing to him. Or at Hogwarts, when she would send him a box of small cakes to share with his friends, rich vanilla and chocolate layered with strawberry jam and spread thick with fluffy frosting that changed colour as you ate it.

What she would think of this cake...

Still, as miserable and feeble a celebration as this was, it was better than his last birthday. His days then had been a waking nightmare and his birthday had been no different, just another day coloured by the constant terror he’d felt leading up to the Death Eaters’ invasion of Hogwarts. And then, of course, there had been the days that followed...

The aching cold of the dungeons, the constant throbbing of his body, the stench of his own piss and shit all around him, the taste of his own blood in his mouth. Lying helpless on the floor, unable to move, ringed by men he had once admired, once emulated, hearing their laughter, their derision. And the pain. The pain that made him lose control of his body, that made him whimper and scream and beg...

Draco’s face felt hot and flushed as it rushed over him, the dark tangle of humiliation, fear and hopelessness he’d come to know all too well back then. His stomach lurched and twisted, his chest felt suddenly tight. There was a pressure in his head, a stinging behind his eyes, and his throat felt thick and clogged. His body trembled, wanting something to happen, wanting to scream, wanting to hit, wanting to run...

One hand shot out and grabbed the cake. Grunting, he heaved it as hard as he could against the kitchen wall. It smashed dramatically, making a wet thwapping sound as the icing smushed against the wall. Bits of cake went flying in every direction before pattering down on the floor like rain.

For a long, horrified moment, Draco stood, rooted to the spot, and watched as the remnants of his cake slid down the wall.

Then he started laughing.

He started laughing and he didn’t stop. He _couldn’t_ stop. Draco’s laughter built until he was nearly doubled over, tears in his eyes.

Dear god, if they could see him now. His mother, Severus, Pansy, Blaise. Or better yet, Potter and his little band of do-gooder Gryffindors. If they could see him now, standing in the ruin of the cake he’d attempted to _make himself_ , Merlin, what they would think.

It went on for a long time, but eventually his laughter calmed. Draco wiped the tears from his eyes and then cleaned up the mess with a wave of his wand. The spell didn’t work that well – nothing ever did with his second-hand wand – and a wet-looking stain remained on the wall. He knew he should clean it by hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead, he went to the pantry and pulled out a bottle of Firewhisky. He poured himself a generous shot, slopping a bit as he did so. Then he raised the glass in a mock toast.

“Happy birthday to me,” he said and tossed the drink back, grimacing at the burn.

He poured himself another.

 

 

***

In the end, Draco decided he rather liked the stain his cake-throwing episode had left on the wall. There was something about it that pleased him in a perverse sort of way. His inner demons made manifest in sugar, butter and flour. And eggs and salt. And whatever the hell else he’d put in there. It seemed a most excellent example of irony, too, which he also enjoyed. He’d spent the last few days looking at it and smiling to himself.

He’d even gone so far as to paint a frame around it, taking his time to ensure straight edges and nice, square corners. It was his masterpiece, after all. It deserved to be displayed properly. It increased the absurdity of the whole thing quite nicely, too, in Draco’s opinion. He still hadn’t decided on a name for it, though. _The Madness of Draco Malfoy_? _Cake, #13_? _Reflections on Flight and Fancy_?

Draco was pouring himself another glass wine and mulling over the options when a soft pop announced Severus’s arrival. Draco’s fingers tightened around his glass and he concentrated on filling it, refusing to look over at Severus, refusing to acknowledge the disapproving look that was sure to be on his face.

“Evening Severus,” he said and there was a slight slur in his speech that he was certain would set Severus off. Not that it took much to put Severus into reproachful parent mode these days. “Fancy a drink?”

“I’m surprised there’s any left to share.”

Draco turned around and smirked. “Well, there isn’t, really, but never let it be said a Malfoy isn’t a generous host.”

“Draco, enough.” Severus gestured to the empty bottles that cluttered the kitchen counter. “What is this?”

“Looks like a pile of bottles to me,” Draco replied with a shrug. He really needed to remember to Vanish the bottles as he finished them. He hated these scenes with Severus. Lately the man had become so dramatic about it. Though really, if he thought back to the way Severus used to swoop about the Potions classroom, the theatrics weren’t exactly a surprise.

Severus took a few steps closer; presumably he meant to intimidate Draco. “Do you want to explain yourself?”

Draco sipped at his wine. “Not particularly, no.”

“I did not bring you here so you could drink yourself to death.”

Severus’s eyes flashed dangerously and Draco felt a small thrill of fear. He knew Severus wouldn’t hurt him, not really, however, the man’s anger was nothing to take lightly, either. But Draco was in a reckless sort of mood and he was tired of Severus’s constant criticism. If it wasn’t his drinking, it was that he wasn’t eating enough, wasn’t going outside enough, wasn’t taking proper care of the cottage. It was always something and Draco just didn’t care anymore.

He made a show of draining his glass and setting it on the counter with a loud clink. “No? Huh. Well, my mistake.”

“This is no laughing matter.” Severus’s voice had gone low and soft, always a bad sign.

Instead of relishing the results of his provocation as he’d expected to, Draco found he’d lost his taste for the scene and baiting Severus was suddenly tedious. In fact, all of it, the whole situation was suddenly tedious as hell. “Do I look like I’m laughing?”

“No, you look like you’re drunk.” Severus’s nose wrinkled in distaste.

“So what if I am? What difference is it to you?”

“It’s not healthy,” Severus replied with a sigh.

There was something weary and put-upon about the sound that pissed off Draco even more.

“What about my life is healthy?” he snapped peevishly. “I’m stuck here in the middle of nowhere, no one to talk to, nothing to do, my father dead, my mother god knows where. I am bored when I’m inside, afraid when I’m outside. I just sit here, day in, day out, waiting for the war to end or for someone to finally show up and kill me. And honestly, these days I’d pretty much take either one. So fuck you. Fuck you and your concern and your disapproving eyes and your lectures.”

“I’m only thinking of your well-being.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, you’re a saint.”

Severus strode forward and grasped Draco by the shoulders, shaking him twice, hard. “I’m trying to help you, you foolish child.” Then his face softened slightly, hands gentling on Draco’s shoulders. “Let me help you, Draco.”

Draco couldn’t say exactly why he did it. Maybe there was something about the way Severus was looking at him – a mix of concern and disgust and pity – that he couldn’t bear. Maybe he resented Severus’s interference, just wanted him to go away. Maybe he was lonely, maybe he was horny, maybe he was just bored and felt like stirring shit up. Draco didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he knew was that suddenly, it seemed like a good idea to step closer, to move forward until he was close enough to roll his hips against Severus’s, close enough to lean in and whisper in his ear, “I know a way you can help me.”

Severus’s hands whipped back from Draco’s shoulders and he took a step backwards, his lip curling in disdain. “Your joke is in poor taste.”

And it was. Draco knew it was and he knew he should stop, but he didn’t particularly want to.

“Who’s joking?” he said, moving forward again.

Severus back away further.

Draco smirked. He pulled off his shirt and tossed it on the floor, enjoying the look of discomfort that came over Severus’s face. “It’s been almost a year that I’ve been here. I’m tired of wanking.” He undid his belt, fumbling only slightly with the buckle. “Come on. A mouth is a mouth, a hole is a hole. You can close your eyes and pretend I’m anyone you want.” He sauntered closer to Severus.

Severus scowled and averted his eyes. “Stop this,” he hissed.

“No.”

Draco undid his trousers, letting them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of his pants and started to pull them down too, but suddenly Severus’s hands were on his wrists, stilling the movement.

“Stop,” Severus said again. “I know you are frustrated. I know you are lonely and it is not easy for you here. But at least you are safe.”

And there was that look again. It made Draco sick to his stomach to see it. He had a sudden flash of how he must look, standing in the kitchen, drunk, dishevelled, wearing nothing but socks and pants.

His face burned with embarrassment and he staggered back a step. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Severus, what do you know, anyway?”

Severus opened his mouth to say something, but Draco didn’t wait to hear what it was. Instead, he grabbed the bottle of wine from the counter and fled for the refuge of his room.

***

When Draco awoke late the next day, Severus was gone and so was all of the alcohol in the house. Draco searched the cottage, digging through the pantry, the cupboards, even Severus’s room, but there wasn’t so much as a bottle of Butterbeer.

Somehow, he couldn’t find the energy to be angry about it. With the horror of the previous night fresh in his mind, Draco had to admit it was probably for the best. He might be shut up alone in the middle of nowhere for the foreseeable future but it was no reason to turn into Trelawney or anything.

Still, he had a feeling he would miss it. The alcohol had made everything so much easier, taking the edge off his fear, his grief, and his unrelenting loneliness, dulling it all down to a tolerable kind of quiet misery.

***

  



	2. Thaw

.II – Thaw

.iv

**January 1999**

There was something sharp about stars in the winter, Draco thought as he lay on the floor of the cottage, looking out the window at the night sky. The light from winter stars was hard, piercing. 

He remembered the summer skies of his childhood, stars glowing like fireflies, friendly and warm. He remembered how they spread overhead, beckoning almost, connecting Draco to every other person gazing up at them, making him feel like he was a part of something bigger. 

Some of his best memories were of starry skies back when he was small. He and his mother would stretch out on a blanket in the Manor gardens and seek out the mysterious patterns shining above them. 

_“There’s your family, my darling. No matter where you go, we’re always with you.”_

Draco’s eyes moved over the familiar stars and constellations: Draco, Cygnus, Andromeda, Orion with Bellatrix...

He frowned at the last one and blinked a few times, forcing the constellations to retreat back into the glittery display, their shapes swallowed up by a thousand points of light.

The stars had long since ceased to be a comfort. Astronomy held no appeal for him anymore.

He stretched a hand up and spread his fingers wide. Closing one eye, he twisted his hand back and forth until he had it perfectly aligned, one sparkling star shining in each of the spaces between his fingers. They winked in and out of existence as he closed and spread his fingers. Close and spread, close and spread, close and spread...

Hard. Piercing. Winter stars were unforgiving.

***

A small popping sound alerted him to Severus’s arrival. With an inward sigh, Draco pushed himself out of his chair and turned to say hello.

Only to find it wasn’t Severus at all. 

It was Potter.

Potter, sprawled out on the floor, unconscious. His clothes were shredded to little more than rags, his body caked in grime and blood. He smelled like he’d been lying in the sewer for days. His right arm was at an unnatural angle. His face was a mass of bruises. 

Draco’s first instinct was to run. 

He was halfway to the kitchen – plans running through his head, deciding what he needed, how fast he could pack, whether or not he would risk Apparition with his second-hand wand – when he noticed something that stopped him dead. Curled into Potter’s fist, two wands. He recognised them both immediately. Potter’s holly wand, famed among the Death Eaters after the showdown in the graveyard, and Draco’s own hawthorn wand.

Draco had wondered for a long time which side Severus was really on. Before his stay in the dungeons, he’d had no doubt. He’d seen Severus in the Death Eater meetings, seen him with the Dark Lord. And Draco had seen him kill Dumbledore, seen Severus strike the old man down despite how he pleaded for his life. 

But then Severus had saved him. Had risked his own life to save him. And not only that but he’d kept Draco safe and alive for over a year. 

That, in itself, didn’t mean anything, though. It wasn’t as though he’d saved Draco for the Order or something. The good side – Dumbledore’s side, Potter’s side – they had no use for Draco. If Severus saved him, it was only because of their own connection, the relationship Severus shared with Draco, with his parents. It was an act against the Dark Lord, yes, but one unrelated to the war.

This though, this was as clear a sign as you could get. Harry Potter, the Chosen One, with his own wand in his hand. And Draco’s, too.

Draco had his answer.

***

It was late into the evening when Potter woke.

Unnerved by Potter’s presence in the cottage, Draco had retreated to his bedroom, but in the still of evening, Potter’s moans reached him easily.

He found Potter sitting on the floor cradling his bad arm against his body, his wand held tight in his fist. Potter’s head whipped around when Draco entered the room and, despite himself, Draco flinched and hung back in the doorway. He wished he hadn’t left Potter’s wand in his hand after retrieving his own. It would have been better if Potter had been unarmed, at least until Draco had the chance to explain.

For a long minute, they just stared at each other, Draco’s heart pounding in his chest, Potter as tense as a spooked deer. 

Then Potter leant forward. “Is someone there?” he asked, his voice ragged and breaking.

Draco frowned. What was he going on about? Potter was looking right at him. Sure, the cottage was dim but it wasn’t _that_ dark.

“I can hear you,” Potter continued. “I know you’re there. Please.” 

Draco stepped further into the room. Potter’s eyes moved restlessly, searching but not settling on Draco despite the fact he was no more than ten feet away.

“Please. I can’t move my legs. I can’t see. I can’t fucking _see_.”

Fuck. Potter was blind.

His eyes on Potter’s wand, his own wand ready in his hand, Draco moved forward until he was right in front of Potter, then, slowly, he knelt down until they were face to face.

Potter’s glasses were gone. His face looked strange without them. Naked. Vulnerable. Or maybe it was just being this close to him. Draco had never been this close to him before without one of them throwing punches.

“Where am I?” Potter asked.

“Safe,” Draco said, pitching his voice deliberately low. He didn’t want Potter to guess who he was. Not just yet.

“Safe?” Potter repeated, seeming bewildered. “But what does that – _where am I_?”

“You’re safe.”

Draco could see Potter straining at his words, trying to place his voice. Potter’s eyes narrowed and his mouth thinned into a tight line. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend,” Draco replied, ignoring the irony of his words. None of that mattered for the moment.

Potter gave a heavy sigh, clearly realising he wasn’t going to be getting any answers. “If you’re really a friend, maybe you can help me. I’m pretty sure my arm is broken. Can you fix it? I mean, are you...?”

“I’m a wizard. I’m not very good at healing spells, but I can give it a try. Probably fix it well enough that it should hold until –” He broke off before Severus’s name escaped his lips. “Until someone more competent comes.”

“Okay.”

“Where else are you hurt?” Draco asked and had a sudden flash of himself, sitting on the sofa with Severus, listing off his injuries... 

“My arm. My legs, I can’t move my legs, can’t even feel them. I think I might have a broken rib or two. And my mouth, I have a few broken teeth.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

They both fell quiet as Draco set about healing Potter as best he could. Draco touched his wand to Potter’s arm, to his ribs, to his mouth, whispering healing incantations. He applied salves to Potter’s face, to the welts on his wrists, to the cuts that seemed to be everywhere. He was grateful for the growing darkness outside, that he didn’t have to see any of it too clearly.

Potter said nothing as Draco worked, though he did hiss as Draco’s fingers brushed over tender places and open wounds. Draco didn’t dare attempt anything on Potter’s eyes or his legs. Best to leave that to Severus.

He gave Potter potions for pain and to fight infection. As an afterthought, he gave him a Sleeping Draught. Then Draco cast a lightening spell on his erstwhile nemesis and carried him down the narrow hallway. Potter blushed and turned his face away as Draco carried him, clearly embarrassed by his own helplessness. Draco took Potter to his own room and tucked him into his own bed. 

Draco returned to the main room, his mind buzzing with so many questions he couldn’t settle on one long enough to actually think about it. He lay down on the sofa, pulling the old worn blanket over him. He watched out the window as the moon moved across the sky, its bright beams making the snow gleam with an eerie brilliance. He watched the silhouette of an owl winging through the darkness. He watched the bare branches of the trees, turned silver by the moonlight, swaying in the wind, heard them creaking their protest. And many hours later, he watched as the sky started to lighten, dawn coming on so slowly he hardly noticed it until the morning sun shone in his eyes.

***

It felt good to have his wand back, Draco thought as he cleaned up the remains of breakfast with a quick swish. He’d been so long with the makeshift replacement, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to use his own wand, a wand that had chosen him. He spent a few minutes performing random spells of increasing difficulty just because he could. Then, when he tired of playing with the sparrow he’d transfigured out of a teacup, he waved the bird out the front door and went to check on Potter.

Potter was awake, sitting up in his bed and looking towards the window, the morning sun on his face. He looked like he’d cast a cleaning charm over himself and his bruises were already starting to fade. He turned when Draco knocked lightly on the door.

“Who’s there?” Potter’s voice was sharp with anxiety.

“It’s me,” Draco replied and watched Potter relax slightly, shoulders dropping on an exhale. “It’s only ever me. I’m the only one here. Well, we’re the only ones here.”

Potter made a face. “Yes, here at this safe place you can’t tell me anything about.” 

Draco didn’t know what to say to that. Normally it was easy to exchange barbs with Potter – he was so irritating, snide marks just came naturally to Draco when they were in each other’s presence. But that was with the regular Potter, the whole Potter. This Potter, blind and half-paralysed and still covered with bruises that Draco strongly suspected were the result of a stay in the Malfoy dungeons, somehow he didn’t want to poke fun at this Potter. 

“I need to get out of here,” Potter continued. “There are people who will be looking for me, worried about me.”

A jolt of alarm shot through Draco. Potter wanted to leave? Of course he did. Why wouldn’t he? And for that matter, why shouldn’t Draco let him? 

Because Severus had sent Potter here. Not to St. Mungo’s, not to the Order. There had to be a reason for that. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Potter asked, a stubborn tilt to his chin.

Draco improvised. “You’re still hurt. You need to give your body time to heal.”

“I have friends who can help me with that.” 

Draco hesitated, then took a risk. “Your friends are the one who sent you here.”

Potter’s unseeing eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who? Which friends?”

“Hermione,” Draco said, guessing randomly at which name Potter would most like to hear. “She sent you to me.”

“Because you’re so good at healing spells?”

“No, because it’s safe here. Because I can keep you safe long enough for someone else to come who is good at healing spells.”

“Or long enough for Voldemort to come find me.”

“If I wanted to give you to Voldemort,” Draco said, forcing the name out – someone on Potter’s side would say the Dark Lord’s name, “I could have done so last night. Besides, why would we free you just to send you back again?”

He watched as Potter mulled this over. He could see him softening. When Potter spoke again, the hostility had gone out of his voice. “Where is Hermione? Why isn’t she here?”

“She can’t come here. No one can except for me and one other person. That’s what makes it safe. It’s just a few days. Just until we can get you fixed up.”

Potter sighed but he didn’t say anything else.

***

In the end, it was much longer than a few days.

Between levitation spells and the wheelchair they’d cobbled together from transfigured wheels and a kitchen chair, Potter was able to move about the cottage fairly independently by the end of the first week. They’d agreed early on that Apparition was too risky; it was too difficult for Potter to “see” his end destination in his mind when he’d never actually seen it in person, either. They set Potter up in Severus’s room, rearranging the furniture to make it easier for him to manoeuvre about. He could get himself in and out of bed, to the toilet, to the sofa, or to one of the chairs by the fire. Draco had given Potter some clothes and he seemed to be able to dress himself well enough. It took him some time, of course, but Potter managed, which relieved Draco greatly. The situation was strange enough without having to play nursemaid.

In fact, the only time Potter consistently needed his help was getting in and out of the bath. The tub was deep, with steep enamel sides and no handles for Potter to get a grip on. They’d tried to rig up several supports that Potter could use to hoist himself in and out of the bath, but none of them had worked and Potter had twice split his lip crashing face first onto the bathroom floor. Eventually they’d given up, and now Draco levitated Potter in and out of the bath each night.

For Potter, it was embarrassing – he often had a blush on his cheeks when Draco came into the bathroom. For Draco, it was excruciating. As much as he tried not to look, he couldn’t help but stare at Potter’s naked form every time. He couldn’t help but notice how thin Potter was, his ribs sticking out, his shoulder blades and collarbones much too sharp. He couldn’t help but notice the bright red scars that lined Potter’s body, some left from the wounds Draco hadn’t been able to heal completely, some older. The long, thin one on Potter’s forearm drew Draco’s eye again and again. 

Even though Potter put on weight as the days stretched into a week and then two, even though some of the red lines faded to white and others disappeared altogether under the workings of Severus’s salve, every time Draco saw Potter’s naked form, he couldn’t help thinking it looked a lot like something he’d been trying very hard to forget.

***

It started with moaning.

Low and pained, not loud enough to pull Draco fully awake, not quiet enough to let him settle back into sleep again. 

Sometimes that’s all there was, the moaning. Sometimes it would last a minute or two and then disappear. Maybe it would be like that tonight, Draco thought, a good night tonight.

The moans changed, rising into chilling cry that skated down Draco’s spine. He knew that sound. He’d made that sound.

One of the bad nights, then.

He pulled his pillow over his head, trying to shut out the soft wails. It didn’t work. He threw a muffling spell at the door. It didn’t work either. He tried another. Nothing. If anything, Potter seemed to be getting louder. 

Swearing under his breath, Draco hauled himself out of bed and crossed the hall to Potter’s room.

Potter was tossing in his bed, sheets knotted around him, his face and chest sweaty, and that god-awful _sound_ coming out of his mouth. 

“Potter,” Draco said sharply. When there was no response, he reached out and shook Potter’s shoulder. “Potter, wake up.”

Potter’s eyes snapped open and, _fuck_ , Draco hated this moment, hated watching the look that came onto Potter’s face as he opened his eyes onto nothing, as he realised he was still blind.

“You were having a nightmare,” Draco said, unnecessarily perhaps, but it served to distract them both from the horror of it.

Potter pushed to sitting, looking awkward. “Sorry.”

Draco looked away, his hands clenching into fists. Fuck, he _hated_ this. “I don’t know why you just don’t take the Dreamless Sleep.”

Potter shook his head. “I can’t. Like I said before, sometimes my dreams are important. Sometimes they... sometimes I can help people. I’m sorry I woke you, though. I can put up a silencing charm if you like.”

“No, it’s fine,” Draco said with a sigh and started toward the door.

Potter’s voice stopped him. “Do you ever have nightmares?”

Draco bit back a bitter laugh before it could escape. “I used to.”

“How did you stop them?”

“I took the damn Dreamless Sleep.”

Potter smiled at him then, a soft, amused smile that hinted at something, not quite affection, but familiarity maybe.

Draco waved a dismissive hand at him and even though Potter couldn’t see it, Draco was sure he understood it all the same. “Go back to sleep, Potter.”

***

Draco was dozing on the couch when Severus arrived. He didn’t greet Draco. His eyes swept the room once and then he turned on his heel and strode down the hall. Draco hadn’t even managed to sit up properly before the shouting began.

“You fucking bastard! I’ll kill you, I swear to god, I will!” Potter’s voice shook with rage.

There was a pause and Draco could see Severus’s sneer in his mind’s eye. “Given your current state, you’ll understand if I’m not cowering at your threat.”

For several seconds, Potter streamed out obscenities, but then they cut off abruptly. There was the sound of grappling and then something crashed to the floor. 

“What are you doing?” Potter shouted, sounding panicked.

“Shut up and hold still.”

“ _What the fuck are you doing_?”

“I’m giving you your sight back, you ungrateful brat. Now hold still.” There was a pause and Draco found himself holding his breath until he heard Severus’s satisfied grunt. “A simple blindfold spell. A child could remove it.”

Draco could imagine Potter’s response to that, his jaw going hard, his eyes flashing. Draco waited to hear more obscenities and was surprised when Potter only said, “Fix my legs.”

“I can’t.”

“ _What_?”

“Bellatrix use a Paralysis Curse on you,” Severus said and Draco cringed. His fucking crazy aunt. “It severed your neural pathways. I can repair damage but it will take time for you to fully recover. Weeks, maybe. Perhaps months.”

“Months? I don’t have months.”

“You have as much time as it takes. How long do you estimate you would last against the Dark Lord if you couldn’t run?”

“Fuck you. I _don’t_ have months. Do you have any idea –”

“How close you are to finding the last Horcrux? Of course I know.”

Draco had no idea what a Horcrux was but Severus’s words shut Potter up in a hurry. There was a long pause and then Potter asked a question, his voice too soft for Draco to hear.

“The Dark Lord does not,” was Severus’s response. “Though he knows more than you think he does.”

“How?” Potter’s voice was louder now but there was something defeated in his tone and Draco felt unease bloom in his stomach.

“There is a spy in the Order.”

“Yeah, _you_.”

“Not me, you idiot boy. There is someone else. Have you not pieced this together yet? How do you suppose you were taken out of the Tonks residence? It was under a Fidelis Charm, only a dozen people knew where you were. Yet someone took you from there and handed you over to the Death Eaters.”

“I assumed our Secret Keeper had been killed.”

“No, I assure you Moody is alive and well. Someone in the Order, in the heart of the Order, gave you up.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Until I can discern who it is, I cannot let you leave this cottage. You’ll only be taken again and this time I might not be able to free you in time.”

It went on for over an hour, the argument devolving into shouted insults and accusations about Dumbledore, the Dark Lord, Sirius Black, and eventually, Potter’s parents. After a while, the shouting gave way to clipped conversation, low murmurs and several long silences. Then there was more shouting and then finally, _finally_ , they seemed to burn themselves out.

Draco was nodding off in his chair when Severus called down the hall for him. “Draco, come here.”

Draco flinched. It was the first time he’d been mentioned. He doubted Potter would be pleased when he realised who his “friend” was.

Sure enough, Potter’s voice, loud and abrasive, rang out. “Malfoy? What the hell is –?”

He fell abruptly silent, presumably figuring it out. When Draco walked through the bedroom door, Potter looked at him. 

Potter had his glasses back. Draco supposed Snape had brought them or procured replacements somehow. It was amazing the difference it made. Draco had become used to to that open face. It had seemed different somehow from the face he’d known at Hogwarts. This person sitting in the bed now, this wasn’t the Potter he’d been helping the last three weeks, the scared, vulnerable Potter who’d needed him. This was the Git Who Lived, Saint Potter, the Potter who’d made his life miserable since they’d first met on the Hogwarts Express back in first year. This Potter didn’t look at him with a kind of pleasant familiarity. This Potter was looking at him as though he’d never seen Draco before in his life, his expression somewhere between confusion and astonishment.

“You?” Potter choked out. “It’s been you all this time?”

Draco nodded and looked away.

***

Severus stayed throughout the next day, though Draco didn’t see much of him. For the most part, Severus and Potter stayed holed up in Potter’s room, talking. Or shouting, rather. Apparently, being clearly and definitely on the same side wasn’t doing anything to improve their relationship. Draco could hear most of their conversations. There was discussion of who the mole could be, who Potter could trust, possible safe locations to be considered. Considered by Potter, anyway. Severus’s position was clear, trust no one, do not leave the cottage until he’d uncovered the mole. Potter, being Potter, resisted. This was at the heart of most of the shouting, their animosity towards each other making up the rest.

Draco had left them to it. He was focused on other things, like _not_ thinking about what it was going to be like to deal with Potter now that he knew the identity of his “friend.” Somehow, he doubted Potter’s affability would last very long now that the truth was out...

Eventually, Severus left, but not before making it very clear that he expected Draco to continue helping with Potter’s recovery. Unfortunately, the helping Severus had in mind turned out to be a rather more hands-on proposition than Draco had supposed, involving Draco assisting Potter in a series of rehabilitative exercises and stretches. Draco’d had to bite his tongue so hard he tasted blood to keep from saying anything to that. He knew Severus wasn’t joking about his expectations. And he knew he had a lot to be grateful for. Spending forty-five minutes a day on a rehab routine with Potter was small payment, to be sure. But that didn’t make the idea of getting down on the floor and actually doing it any more pleasant.

Still, it would likely be even more unpleasant for Potter, and that was something anyway.

The next day, Draco lingered over his morning routine, taking his time in the shower and spending much longer than was necessary picking out his clothes. After a while, though, he ran out of excuses to stay in his room. He indulged in one heavy, put-upon sigh and then made his way down the hall.

Putting on a stony expression, Draco stepped into the main room. Potter was in his wheelchair by the window with a book and a cup of tea. He looked over at Draco, his eyes focusing in immediately. Draco had the sudden urge to take a retreating step. After almost three weeks of Potter’s shifting, unseeing gaze, it felt discomforting to suddenly have those eyes _on_ him. 

“I was beginning to think you were never coming out.” Potter’s lips quirked into a grin.

Draco gritted his teeth. Time for the ridiculing already, was it? “I slept late. I was tired. It’s been impossible to get any rest with you and Severus screaming at each other.” 

Potter didn’t say anything. He was still grinning, the arse. Draco resisted the urge to hit him. Causing him more injury would be counter-productive, after all. 

Still, he could make him suffer a little. “It’s time for your exercises.”

“Don’t you want some breakfast?” Potter asked, waving one hand toward the kitchen table where a teapot and a plate of pastries waited. 

“Not nearly as much as I want to get this over with,” Draco said, sneering. “Well, are you coming?”

Potter steered his chair over to where Draco stood. Slowly and cautiously, Potter edged one foot onto the floor and then the other. Draco hadn’t seen Potter since Severus had repaired the damage caused by Bellatrix’s curse. Despite himself, Draco leant in a little, holding his breath as he watched Potter manoeuvring his legs into position. 

Leaning hard on the armrests of his chair, Potter slowly – very slowly – pushed to standing. His face was screwed up in a pained expression and Draco could see beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. His legs trembled and almost folded, but Potter pushed on determinedly. He got his legs beneath him and then carefully released his hold on the armrests.

Potter swayed and Draco’s arm shot out automatically to steady him. Potter gave him a shaky smile and fuck it all if Draco didn’t feel proud of the bastard.

He shoved the feeling aside, not liking the confusion that came with it. “Yes, yes, very impressive. But you’re not quite playing Quidditch yet, are you?”

Potter’s smile slipped. Draco pretended not to notice and helped Potter to the floor.

The moment when Draco took Potter’s foot and placed it against his own chest was quite possibly the strangest of his life. Potter’s foot was hard and solid against him, but warm, too, and it moved as Potter shifted about. Draco positioned his hands the way Severus had shown him, one on Potter’s ankle, one on the side of Potter’s thigh, just above the knee. Through the fabric of Potter’s trousers, Draco could feel the muscles twitching against his fingers. 

He looked up and saw Potter watching him, his expression unreadable.

“What?” Draco snapped irritably.

Potter sighed, looking almost disappointed. It rubbed Draco the wrong way and he glared at Potter.

Potter looked away. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Much as I wish that were true, Severus made it quite clear I’m to be your personal house-elf for the foreseeable future. Now I’m going to lean forward very, very slightly and I want you to push back against me. Start slow, none of your usual Gryffindorish rushing-in idiocy.”

Potter ignored him. “Snape’s not here. He won’t know the difference.”

“He might suspect when you fail to recover.”

Draco leant forward a fraction. Potter, uncooperative, did nothing to compensate for the movement. Instead, he was glaring at something over Draco’s shoulder. 

“I’m sure I can manage,” he said, his voice tight. His muscles jumped under Draco’s hand.

Right. 

Draco straightened abruptly and Potter’s leg fell heavily to the floor. “If you find the idea of me touching you so repulsive that you’d rather remain a cripple, then by all means, let’s stop right now.”

Potter’s eyes snapped back to Draco and his cheeks reddened. “That’s not what I meant. I only meant... Look, you obviously don’t want to be doing this. I can see now, I can manage on my own. I can modify these exercises or something.”

“Severus wants me to –”

“I don’t give a fuck what Snape wants, I’m not going to force you to –”

But Draco had heard enough. 

“Shut up,” he said. He grabbed Potter’s foot and placed it back on his chest. “Just shut up and let’s do the fucking exercises.”

They worked in relative silence, speaking only when absolutely necessary. It was awkward and painful on a number of levels. Potter’s face was red the whole time. Draco had never felt so aware of his own hands. When they were done, Draco went back to his room and shut the door.

***

It was late in the day when the smell of herbs and roasting chicken lured Draco out of his room. Following his nose, he found Potter in the kitchen, working away on something or other as several pots boiled merrily on the stove top.

“You’re cooking?”

Potter glanced over his shoulder at Draco. “It seemed only fair. You’ve been cooking for me all this time. Thought I should return the favour.”

Draco peeked in the pots. Potatoes and carrots. “You _know_ how to cook?”

“Yeah. Learned when I was a kid.” Potter turned to face Draco. “I have to say, I’m surprised _you_ know how to cook.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, because you know me so well. It just so happens I have many, _many_ talents.” 

“Mm, like your prodigious artistic ability?” Potter said, grinning as he nodded over to where the easel sat by the window, Draco’s latest attempt on display.

“Oh fuck off.”

There didn’t seem to be much to say after that so Draco cleared out of the kitchen and buried himself in a book until Potter levitated dinner to the table.

Draco took a seat and Potter wheeled himself into place across from him. Draco wanted nothing more than to grab his plate and retreat to the safety of his bedroom but it would mean admitting his discomfort with the situation and he had no intention of doing that. Not if Potter didn’t first.

He turned his attention to his plate. Herbed chicken with mashed potatoes and glazed carrots, all looking as good as anything the Hogwarts house-elves had ever made. 

Draco affected surprise. “Why Potter! This almost looks edible.”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to the chef,” Potter said and then tucked into his meal.

Draco followed suit. They didn’t talk much as they ate, only making occasional requests for salt or pepper or benign observations about the food such as, “this basil is fresh” and “these carrots turned out not too bad.” For a moment, Draco thought it might all be okay, but then Potter put his knife and fork down with a bit too much force and looked expectantly at Draco.

“Problem?” Draco asked.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was you?”

Draco sighed and set down his own utensils. “Yes, because clearly you would have been willing to stay here if you knew it was me.”

“I might not have taken it well that first night, fair enough. But all that time? You couldn’t have said something?”

“No, I couldn’t have. I didn’t know about the spy in the Order. I didn’t know why Severus had sent you here instead of back to your friends. All I knew was that he must have had a reason and that I needed to keep you here. So I didn’t tell you. End of story.”

Potter leant back in his chair, his arms crossing in front of him, and gave Draco a long, considering look. “Fine. I don’t like it, but I suppose it makes sense. But it doesn’t explain what you’re doing here in the first place.”

Draco stared at him and said nothing.

Potter stared back. “Malfoy! Tell me what you’re doing here.”

Draco shrugged and picked up his knife and fork. “Same as you.” He speared a carrot. “Trying not to die.”

“Who’s trying to kill you?”

“Come on, Potter. You have to have some brains to have survived this long. Or is it Granger who’s kept you alive all this time?”

“Voldemort, then.”

Draco let his silence be his confirmation.

Potter gave him another thoughtful look. Draco tried not to fidget under the attention. 

“How long have you been here?” Potter asked. 

“Long enough that I’ve learned how to cook. Not so long that I’ve learned how to paint.” 

Potter glared at him. Draco rolled his eyes in response. 

“Why does it matter?” he asked.

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Potter said after a moment.

Draco gave Potter his best fake smile, overly bright and full of teeth. “Great, then let’s leave it, shall we?”

The rest of the meal passed in silence.

***

Over the next week, life with Potter settled into a routine that was almost bearable. Potter woke earlier than Draco and had usually already breakfasted by the time Draco made it out of bed. Draco would have a cup of tea and his usual breakfast of toast and jam. When he was done, they’d do Potter’s exercise routine. Afterwards, Potter would soak in the tub for a while, which gave Draco all the time he needed to gather up whatever books or supplies he needed for the day. Then he’d make himself a quick sandwich for lunch, carry everything back to his room, and stay there until dinner.

Though they hadn’t talked about it, he and Potter seemed to be taking turns making dinner. They’d eat together, engaging in minimal conversation. When they were done, they’d set the dishes to washing, and Draco would retire to his room for the remainder of the night. He had no idea what Potter did with himself all day, nor did he particularly wish to know. He was happy to remain ignorant of Potter’s habits.

Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said of Potter.

They had finished their dinner, soapy dishcloths were merrily slapping against plates in the sink, and Draco was just turning to leave the kitchen when Potter was suddenly in front of him, his wheelchair blocking Draco’s path. 

Draco huffed and looked pointedly down his nose at Potter. “If you don’t mind?”

But Potter didn’t move out of the way and his chin had that stubborn tilt to it that usually meant an argument was coming. “Malfoy, you don’t have to hide, you know.”

“Who says I’m hiding?”

“So I’m just imagining you spend all day, every day, shut up in your room? And you, what, like to go to bed at eight o’ clock every night?” 

Draco gave an inward sigh. Could Potter never leave well enough alone? “Did you ever consider maybe I’m not hiding from you as much as I just don’t want to be in your company?”

“You didn’t seem to mind being in my company before.”

“Before you needed care,” Draco pointed out. “Now you don’t.”

Potter scowled and a hard gleam came into his eyes. “So I was only tolerable when I was helpless and pathetic?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Potter, you’re never tolerable under any circumstances. I was just doing what was expected of me.”

Potter glared at him for another minute, and then the fight went out of his face. He slumped down in his chair with a small shrug. “Well, thank you for it, anyway. For taking care of me. For helping me now. I know you don’t have much of a choice but... you could make things a lot harder for me if you wanted to. So thanks.”

There was no sarcasm in his voice, no deprecating tone. It seemed sincere. 

It pissed Draco off. 

“Oh shut up!” he shouted.

Potter gaped at him. “What is your problem? I’m just saying thanks.”

“Fine. You’re welcome,” Draco said with a sneer. “There, happy?”

“For fuck’s sake, Malfoy. We’re stuck out here alone for god knows how long. I just thought maybe we could try to get along or something.”

“We never liked each other before. I don’t know why we should start now. You’ve always made it quite clear what you thought of me.” 

“And you’ve always treated me like rubbish!”

“You tried to kill me!”

Potter paled at Draco’s words but ploughed forward anyway. Apparently, it was impossible to shame him into silence. “That was an accident! I didn’t know what that spell did. And I’m sorry, okay? I never got to tell you but I am. I didn’t mean to hurt you, not like that, and I’m sorry.”

Draco waved a hand at him. “Yes, yes, of course you are. Saint Potter isn’t the type to just go slashing people to death on a whim, after all, is he?”

“Hey, you were trying to _Crucio_ me!”

“Lucky for you your _Cutting Curse_ sliced me in two before I could then, hmm?”

“God!” Potter pushed a hand through his hair, clearly getting exasperated. Draco felt less cheered by that fact than he would have expected. “Why are you making this so hard?”

Draco quirked an eyebrow at him. “Is there a reason I should make it easy?”

“Because we’re on the same side now!” Potter said.

“And what makes you think I’m on your side?”

“Um, maybe that Voldemort’s trying to kill you?”

“Just because the Dark Lord would rather kill me than look at me doesn’t mean I’m on your side. Maybe I’m on my own side, did you ever think of that?”

Potter’s mouth dropped open. “But...” He faltered and gestured vaguely with his hands before trying again. “You’ve seen him. You know what he is, what he does. What he wants. You can’t possibly –”

Draco interrupted him. “All I care about is surviving. All I care about is staying alive.”

Potter’s expression turned grim, his jaw tight. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want.”

Draco made to move around Potter, tired of the argument. Potter’s hand shot out and grabbed Draco’s wrist, stopping his progress. He looked down at Potter. Potter stared back up at him, his green eyes intense and oddly bright. 

“I saw you on the Astronomy Tower,” Potter said. “I was there that night. I saw you lower your wand.”

Draco froze. He could feel all the blood drain from face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and his voice sounded clipped and strange to his own ears.

“I was there,” Potter repeated. “Underneath my Invisibility Cloak. I heard everything you said. I saw you lower your wand. If all you cared about was surviving, you would have killed Dumbledore, but you didn’t.” 

Draco tried to pull his arm away. Potter tightened his grip and hung on. 

“And these last few weeks here with me,” Potter continued. “I know you could have –”

Draco wrenched his arm out of Potter’s hand, not caring when the force of the movement pulled Potter against the side of his wheelchair, making the whole thing tilt precariously for a second before it settled to rights again. Potter looked at him, eyes wide.

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco spat. “You don’t know _anything_.”

Not giving Potter a chance to reply, Draco marched down the hall and into his room, slamming the door closed behind him.

***

The next morning, Draco was trying to determine how much longer he could hold out before hunger would force him to brave the kitchen and risk seeing Potter when he heard a loud crash from the living room, followed by a short, choppy shout and a moan.

Without stopping to think about it, Draco hurried out of his bedroom and down the hallway. 

The front door of the cottage was wide open, snow and cold air swirling in. Potter was on the ground, his head and shoulders out the door, his legs inside, trapped under his fallen wheelchair. He was struggling to push it off of himself but it was stuck on the doorframe and wouldn’t budge. There were streaks of blood on Potter’s hands and splatters of it on the floor.

Draco was across the room in a few angry strides. “Potter! What the fuck?” he shouted as he wrestled the chair off Potter’s legs. 

Potter ignored him, instead turning and starting to crawl out the door.

Draco lunged after him, his hands closing around Potter’s legs and pulling him back in.

Potter twisted to strike at Draco’s hands. “Get off me. I need to go outside. _Get off me_!”

Draco held firm. “Are you mad? It’s negative a hundred degrees out there and, fuck, you’re not even wearing _shoes_.”

“So? What do you care?” Potter was practically screaming now. His face was red and his eyes were wild. Draco stared. He’d never seen Potter like this before. “I just can’t – fuck! – I can’t be in here anymore. I need to get outside _now_!”

And just like that, Draco understood. 

He _remembered_.

He remembered it, remembered that suffocating feeling that would come out of nowhere, stealing all the oxygen in the room, making him gasp. He remembered the way the walls would close in, how he would feel _trapped_ , how it seemed every bit as real and absolute as it had in the dungeons. He remembered how every part of him would scream for him to run, to just open the door and _run_. He never did, of course. He’d been too afraid, then, too sure that Death Eaters lurked just beyond the garden, waiting to snatch him. So he’d stayed inside, riding out his panic attacks the best he could, downing calming potions and alcohol as needed.

Potter, though, was fearless in that regard. Recklessly so. And stubborn. So very, very stubborn. Draco knew that, one way or the other, Potter would get outside.

And he knew that he couldn’t let him go alone.

He let go of Potter’s legs. “Okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Okay, just calm down. Breathe.” 

Potter didn’t take his advice. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Malfoy.” 

Potter rolled away from Draco and started pulling himself forward, his weak legs slowing him down, still more of a hindrance than a help.

“Stop. I’ll help you. Just...” He gave Potter an exasperated look. “Merlin, just give me a fucking second to get us _both_ coats and boots.”

Potter exhaled an angry snort but he stopped struggling to get out the door. He let Draco bring over his wheelchair and help him into it. When Draco brought out their winter gear, Potter put his on, even taking the time to put on his hat and gloves.

Once they were both geared up, they headed outside, Draco holding the door for Potter to wheel through. He cast a lightening spell on Potter and his wheelchair, making it easier for Potter to manoeuvre through the snow. Still, it was difficult going. They ended up clearing a path around the perimeter of the garden and walking the same circuit over and over.

By the ninth or tenth lap, Potter seemed to be doing better. His breathing had calmed and, though his cheeks and nose were red from cold, his face no longer hand that flushed, angry look. His eyes were clear, his jaw relaxed. The storm had passed, apparently. 

_Thank fuck_ , Draco thought and sighed wearily.

Potter looked over at him, frowning. “Problem, Malfoy?” 

Hmm. Maybe not _quite_ passed then.

Maybe some distraction was in order. 

Draco tossed his head and waved a hand in Potter’s direction. “Oh, I was just thinking about you,” he said airily. “You know, you needn’t have gone to all this bother.”

“Bother?”

“Mmm, this whole elaborate charade. It wasn’t necessary. If you wanted my company, all you had to do was knock on my door, you know.”

“If I wanted your...” Potter trailed off, shaking his head. “You are completely mental.”

“And you, Potter, are ridiculously melodramatic.”

“I’m melodramatic,” Potter repeated, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears

“Oh, you agree? Wonderful. It’s so much easier to control the impulse towards hysterics if you can admit to the tendency.”

Potter barked out a startled laugh and then gave Draco a small, crooked grin. “You’re a piece of work, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded in acknowledgement. “Why thank you, Potter. Now if you’re done freaking out, can we go inside? I’m fucking freezing.”

***

After that, walks became part of their daily routine. A few days in, they ditched Potter’s wheelchair. Potter wasn’t satisfied with doing loops around the garden and the wheelchair was too cumbersome in the woods. Instead, he walked using a cane and leaning on Draco for support. It was awkward and uncomfortable but they didn’t talk about it. Nor did they talk about how Potter sometimes demanded extra walks, how sometimes his need to get outside was so immediate, it was all Draco could do to get his coat on before they were out the door, traipsing through the snow. And they certainly didn’t talk about what was behind Potter’s need for space, for the feeling of freedom. They also didn’t talk about Draco’s discomfort with being outside, about how his shoulders rose the second they stepped through the door and didn’t drop again until they were back inside, about how sometimes he startled at the sound of cracking branches or the rustling of animals in the brush.

They talked about other things, though, as they picked their way through the snow and fallen branches. Inconsequential things, usually, though sometimes they would stray into the dangerous territory of Hogwarts or Quidditch and conversation would quickly give way to fighting. They argued often, though just as often they didn’t, but no matter what, they kept talking. They had to, otherwise it was just them walking, Draco with his arm around Potter’s waist, Potter leaning into him for support. They had to because, otherwise, in the silence, the whole bloody thing was just too damn _close_.

***


	3. Chapter 3

.v

**February 1999**

When Potter once again turned toward a path that would take them further away from the cottage rather than closer to it, Draco came to a dead stop, digging his heels into the snow for good measure. He tightened his grip on Potter’s arm, forcing him to stop, too. Draco was _not_ going any further. 

“Enough, Potter. I’m so cold my bollocks are actually trying to crawl up into my stomach. It’s time to head back.”

“Just five more minutes,” Potter said, giving the snowy path a longing look so pathetic that Draco almost caved. 

He didn’t though. It had taken hours of freezing his arse off in the woods on these stupid walks but he was developing immunity to that look. “That’s what you said five minutes ago _and_ five minutes before that. We’re going back. Now.”

Potter scowled and shook off Draco’s hand. “You’re no fun at all.”

“No, I’m just sane. I know it’s confusing for you, seeing as you’re _in_ sane and all, but just trust me on this one. Normal people like to be inside when it’s cold.”

“Christ,” Potter muttered. “Someone’s pissy.”

“And someone else is stalling.” 

They just stood there for a moment, staring at each other, neither one wanting to give in. Potter gave the path another look, this one more considering. Draco could practically hear the wheels turning as Potter tried to figure out a way to convince Draco to go on.

Draco, however, had a trump card. They both knew it, so he saw no point in not playing it. “I know you’ve made a lot of progress, but I can still drag your sorry arse all the way home if I have to.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed dangerously. A few more minutes ticked by as he glared at Draco. 

Draco feigned a yawn. 

Potter snorted derisively but he turned away from his path of choice and started down the one that led back toward the cottage. A small grin tugged at the corners of Draco’s mouth, hidden by the edge of his scarf. He trotted up beside Potter and took his arm again, steadying him as they made their way over the bumpy, snow-covered path.

Potter sighed wistfully. “Remember that time I kicked your arse on the Quidditch pitch?”

Draco slanted a look at him. “You mean that time you were too cowardly to fight me without two other people in tow? What about it?”

“That was a good day.”

“Mm,” Draco hummed, frowning. “Oh, speaking of, remember that time I broke your nose?”

Potter stiffened. “Yes.”

“That was good, too, wasn’t it? Fun times.”

Potter butted his shoulder against Draco’s, grinning. “Prat.”

“Wanker,” Draco tossed back.

“Arse.”

“Idiot.”

“Tosser.”

“Prick.”

“Kiss-arse.”

“Arse-face.”

Potter laughed then, warm and open, and leant into Draco, who found himself feeling considerably less cold.

***

Potter was sprawled out on the floor, sweaty and red-faced after their exercises. He had one arm flung over his eyes and he was panting, still trying to catch his breath. Draco sat beside him, happily anticipating the effect his next words were sure to have.

“Okay, Potter, trousers off.”

Potter’s arm swung away from his face and his eyes popped open. “Excuse me?”

Draco’s grin widened. He did enjoy catching Potter off-guard. “Massage time. Trousers off.”

Potter continued to boggle.

Draco leant back on his hands and gave an exaggerated sigh of displeasure. “Let me guess. At no point in your latest screaming match did Severus tell you he’d brought a new potion for you to try.”

“Er...”

“Right, well, he did. He then ordered me to massage it into your legs three times a week after your exercises. He was very threatening about it, too. For some reason, he seemed to feel I might object.”

Draco had been livid about it at the time, but now, watching Potter shift uncomfortably, it was almost worth it.

“Are you sure I can’t just drink it?” Potter asked hopefully.

“Oh, please do. We’ve been needing a little entertainment around here. You poisoning yourself sounds like just the thing.” Potter glowered impressively and Draco laughed. “Just lose the trousers. The sooner we start, the sooner it’s over, the sooner we can Obliviate each other.”

“We’re going to do this here?” Potter had an edge of panic to his voice. “On the floor?”

“What? You want me to take you to the bedroom?” 

Potter choked and Draco laughed again.

“Why are you being so weird about this?” he asked. “Are you not wearing pants or something?”

Potter looked affronted. “Yes, I’m wearing pants! I’m being weird about this because _it’s weird_.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Getting a reaction out of Potter was fun but he had a feeling this could go on all day if he let it. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and, muttering a quick incantation, waved it at Potter.

Who promptly sprung to his feet, his hand dropping to shield his groin. “What the – You Vanished my trousers!”

“Yes, well, next time maybe you’ll shuck them when I tell you to instead of whining like a fucking Hufflepuff.”

It took a several _long_ minutes for Potter to get his various protests and recriminations out of his system, but finally Draco got him to lie back down and shut up. 

Draco poured some of the potion into his hand. It was runny and slightly sticky. It felt hot, too, making his palm tingle unpleasantly. Potter was watching him warily, his eyes glued to Draco’s hands as Draco rubbed his palms together, distributing the potion over his fingers. Potter’s eyes stayed fixed on Draco’s hands as they slowly lowered and closed around Potter’s ankle. 

It felt strange to put his hands on Potter’s bare leg. Potter’s skin was shockingly warm and soft under Draco’s hands. Was all skin so soft? He tried to recall touching Pansy or Blaise, or even the brush of his mother’s fingers against his face, but he couldn’t. How long had it been since he had touched another person?

Potter hissed in a sharp breath. “Fuck. Ow, Jesus, that burns.”

Draco smirked. “Now we know why you can’t just drink this one.”

“What is that shit?”

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. “You think Severus actually bothered to explain it to me?”

“Point,” Potter conceded with a nod. “Still. Jesus.”

They both fell silent as Draco slowly worked his way up Potter’s leg, carefully rubbing the potion in and trying his best to follow Severus’s instructions on massage. It wasn’t as easy as he’d imagined it would be. Not that the actual massage was difficult. The techniques Severus had shown him were simple and Potter had regained enough muscle that it was easy to follow the lines of tissue and tendon. 

No, the problem was that even though his mind knew that this was Potter – who might not be as bad as he used to be, but was still _Potter_ – his body was excited to finally be getting a bit of contact again and the feel of Potter’s firm thigh in his hands wasn’t nearly as disagreeable as it should have been. 

Potter, for his part, was full of hisses and twitches, reactions to the pain of the potion working on his skin and Draco’s hands working on his muscles. Observing him, Draco started to feel like an arse for finding the whole thing mildly arousing when Potter was clearly finding it unpleasant. 

That was, until he noticed the very definite bulge in Potter’s pants. 

Draco’s eyebrows shot up. He glanced up at Potter’s face. Potter had his eyes scrunched closed and his lips pressed tight. His shoulders were pulled up towards his ears and everything about him radiated tension. Draco moved his hand a little higher up Potter’s thigh and gave an experimental squeeze. The bulge in Potter’s pants swelled noticeably.

“Something you want to tell me about, Potter?” Draco asked with a smirk.

Potter didn’t open his eyes, didn’t move, barely even seemed to breathe, but his face went a bright red. “Fuck off.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Draco drawled. “It’s a natural reaction. I’ve been told I’m quite good with my hands.”

He gave Potter’s thigh another squeeze for emphasis.

Potter’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is someone else here giving you a hard on?”

“It’s not you! It’s just...”

“Please, do go on. It’s just what?”

“It’s just been a while since anyone touched me other than to –” Potter broke off suddenly, his mouth snapping shut and his jaw clenching.

Draco didn’t need him to finish, though. He could guess what Potter had been about to say: it had been a while since anyone had touched him other than to hurt him. 

The laughter that had been threatening stopped, catching in Draco’s throat. 

Potter flung his arm over his face again and gave a deep groan. “Fucking hell.”

Draco shuddered, feeling the weight of it again, of Potter’s time in the dungeons, of his own. That shared experience that Potter didn’t know they shared. The thick feeling in his throat increased until he felt like he couldn’t breathe. His hands started to tremble and he quickly pulled them off Potter’s leg before he could notice. Not that Potter was likely noticing much of anything besides his own embarrassment at the moment.

Draco closed his eyes, willing himself to calm down. As surreptitiously as possible, he took several long, slow breaths. Then he opened his eyes and put his hands back on Potter’s leg, the other one this time, starting down at the ankle again. He gave a small, dismissive snort. 

“Explain it however you want,” he said in his best bored drawl. “I don’t give a shit what your prick does.”

He seemed to have hit the right tone of indifference because, a moment later, Potter’s arm came back down to rest at his side and the bright colour ebbed from his cheeks. They were both silent as Draco continued to work on Potter’s leg.

Though the bulge in Potter’s pants remained, Draco didn’t find the rest of the massage arousing in the least.

***

After reading the same paragraph four times and still having no idea what it said, Draco gave up. He tossed the book on the floor with a sigh. There was no point in trying to concentrate on anything when Severus and Potter were down the hall having one of their very loud, very _annoying_ “conversations.”

This one had been going on for almost forty-five minutes. It was the same shit it always was: how close was Severus to finding the mole, when was Potter going to be able to leave, how despicable they found each other, and, from Draco’s point of view anyway, how they were both utter arseholes when they were around each other. Draco also heard his own name come up more than once, which was a new and not particularly welcome development. The last thing he wanted was to get dragged into the middle of that dysfunctional relationship.

A few minutes later, Potter stormed down the hall and across the main room. He yanked on his heavy wool coat and wrenched the front door open.

“Where are you going?” Draco asked.

“For a walk.” 

Draco ignored Potter’s petulant tone. “By yourself? Are your legs strong enough for that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t much care. I just can’t be in here with _him_ another second,” Potter groused, nodding toward the bedrooms. 

Draco gave him a pointed look. 

Potter sighed, waving away Draco’s unvoiced opinion. “I won’t go far. I just... I need...” Potter floundered around for a moment, trying to find the right word, but then he apparently gave up. “Fuck, you know how it is with him. I have to go.”

And then he was out the door, slamming it behind him for good measure.

A moment later, Severus appeared looking distinctly harassed.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. “You two have a good talk, then?”

Severus sneered. “That boy is exactly like his father.”

“Mmm, yes, so you’ve said before.”

“His temper tantrum does have some uses, however. I wanted to speak with you privately.” 

Severus pulled an armchair over and took a seat. He leaned back and looked down his nose at Draco. It was a move Draco remembered well from Hogwarts. It made him as uncomfortable now as it had then. 

“As you well know,” Severus began, and his tone was the low, steely one he used to intimidate students into confessing their misdemeanours, “the medicine cabinet here restocks itself from my own personal stores. I’ve noticed a great deal of Dreamless Sleep being used. I had assumed it was Potter, but he tells me he hasn’t been taking it.”

_Fuck._

Severus leant forward, his sharp eyes studying Draco’s face. “Have you been taking Dreamless Sleep again?”

Draco gave Severus a sour look. Why ask questions they both knew the answer to? 

“Your nightmares have returned?” Severus asked. 

Draco said nothing, refusing to answer Severus’s pointless questions.

“How long?” When Draco didn’t answer this time, though, Severus asked again. “How long?”

Draco sighed. “Since Potter showed up here bearing all the signs of the Dark Lord’s special brand of hospitality.”

Severus sat back again and nodded. “I know it couldn’t have been easy seeing him like that. His presence here must stir unwanted memories for you.”

Draco busied himself picking imaginary pieces of lint off his sleeve. “It’s just a few dreams. Can we not make a big deal of this?”

“Draco, you’ve been consuming Dreamless Sleep steadily for almost two months. You know the risks of long-term use. We’ve been over this before.”

“And I’ll tell you the same thing I told you then: I don’t particularly care.”

“Unfortunately for you, I do care. I cannot allow you to keep abusing the potion. I let it go on too long last year. I won’t make that mistake again.”

“For fuck’s sake, Severus, it’s just Dreamless Sleep!” 

“Yes, and prolonged use can lead to headaches, nausea, vomiting, electrolyte imbalance, liver dysfunction –”

Draco cut him off. He knew the list well. He’d heard Severus recount it often enough. “Yes, yes. I know, I know. Very bad things.”

Severus just looked at him. Draco remembered the many, many fights they’d had the last time they went through this. He didn’t have the energy to do it again. Moreover, he knew Severus would win. Ultimately, Severus controlled everything in Draco’s life. He scowled at the thought.

“Fine, I’ll stop taking it,” he said. He didn’t bother trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“I know you will because if I see more than one dose a week leaving my stores, I’ll cut off the supply altogether.”

Draco’s scowl sharpened.

Severus gave him a withering look. “I’ve had Malfoys glaring at me for longer than you’ve been alive, Draco. It doesn’t impress me.”

***

The only good thing that could be said about the bleak, icy day was that it matched Draco’s mood. “Merlin’s balls, Potter! It’s freezing out here.”

Beside him, Potter just rolled his eyes and kept walking. “It’s not that bad.”

Draco scowled into his scarf. “Maybe I’ll start staying home when you go on these little jaunts. You hardly need me anymore, anyway.”

“You and I both know uneven surfaces are still tricky for me. Now stop whining and give me a hand.” Potter stopped in front of a slick-looking patch of ice and held out an arm. He waited until Draco had a firm grip on it before starting forward again. 

They inched their way down the frozen forest path, moving slowly and carefully. Draco stayed close to Potter’s side, ready to take the weight of his body should he slip, as happened frequently on these walks. Draco fervently wished Potter would give them up for both their sakes, but he knew it was a lost cause. 

After a few minutes, the ice ended, giving way to firmly packed snow. Draco eased his grip on Potter’s arm, though he didn’t relinquish it fully. By now he knew all the troublesome parts of the various routes they walked; the snow here hid tree roots that Potter tended to trip over. 

“You look like shit, by the way,” Potter said conversationally as they made their way through the trees. 

“Ah, Potter, you silver-tongued devil. You always know just the thing to say to make me weak in the knees.”

Potter shot him a warning look. “Seriously, you don’t look great. Are you okay?”

Draco shrugged. “Just not sleeping well.”

“Any particular reason?”

“None that I want to talk about.”

Potter glanced at him for a second, a frown flickering across his face, but he didn’t say anything more about it. They fell into a comfortable silence for a while, their footfalls in the crunching snow the only sound. Potter had started to limp slightly. His left leg still wasn’t as strong as his right and the difference almost always started to show itself about halfway through their walks. Draco shifted slightly, making it easier for Potter to lean on him if necessary.

As it sometimes did on these walks, the absurdity of the situation struck Draco. Who would have ever thought he and Potter would be taking a snowy stroll through the woods, arm-in-arm? His father was probably rolling in his grave at that very second. He snorted at the thought.

Potter looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Did I miss something?”

“I was just thinking what my father would say if he could see me right now. He’d be so very disappointed.”

Potter didn’t say anything, his eyes going back to the path ahead. Draco’s father was one of the topics they carefully avoided talking about.

“My father’s dead,” Draco added after a moment. “Did you know that?”

“Yeah, I did,” Potter said, keeping his eyes glued to the path. “I heard some of the Death Eaters talking about it when I was at the Manor.”

Draco hesitated a moment before asking, “Did they say anything about how it happened?”

Potter shook his head. “No, they... were just talking. Nothing worth repeating.”

Draco nodded. 

The silence between them returned, but it was decidedly less comfortable. 

Then Potter cleared his throat and darted a glance in Draco’s direction. “My father’s dead, too.”

Draco stared for a moment, not understanding what would prompt Potter to make such an unnecessary and asinine comment. He let his mouth drop open in mock-astonishment. “Really? I had no idea. How terrible for you. Let me guess, freak Quidditch accident?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Draco regretted them. Something in Potter’s face closed, his eyes going hard. He came to a halt and started to pull away, his arm sliding out of Draco’s hold. 

Draco tightened his grip, stopping Potter’s retreat. 

Potter glowered at him, his jaw clenched tight, but he started walking again.

They were almost back to the cottage when Potter sighed and said, “Speaking of parents, I saw your mother. Almost a year ago now.”

Draco stopped dead, dropping Potter’s arm. He was aware that his heart had started racing. It also seemed to be trying to jump up into his mouth. “What? Where?”

“Godric’s Hollow,” Potter replied. “She asked me about you. If I knew where you were, if you were still alive.”

“What did you tell her?”

Potter shrugged. “The truth. That I hadn’t seen you since the night Dumbledore died.”

Draco blinked, trying to make sense of it. Potter had seen his mother, had spoken to her. The unlikeliness of it made him dizzy. Or maybe it was how badly he needed it to be true that was making him feel unsteady. “Was she all right? I mean, was she...?”

“She looked a bit worse for wear, but who doesn’t these days?” Potter’s hand came up and squeezed Draco’s shoulder. “She was fine, Malfoy. I promise.”

Fine. 

Potter said she was fine. 

But would he even know if she wasn’t? And it was a whole year ago now. Anything could happen in a year. She could be anywhere. She could be hurt, she could be trapped, she could be –

Draco couldn’t finish the thought. Instead, he focused on Potter, who was watching him closely, concern on his face. “So what happened?” 

“Nothing, really,” Potter said, his hand dropping from Draco’s shoulder. “Well, no, in a way, a lot happened. She gave me something. Something important. She...” He trailed off, looking uncomfortable, but after a few seconds he continued. “She might be in some trouble with Voldemort.”

Draco sighed and nodded. “I know.”

“Malfoy, what happened to you and your family? I know you don’t like to talk about it, but it’s just... I mean, your father’s dead, your mother seems to have switched sides, and you’re here, afraid to set foot outside of the cottage...”

Draco looked away, letting himself be absorbed in the sight of the trees around them, the bare branches stark against the grey winter sky. “Nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” Potter prodded, his tone gentle.

Draco shrugged. “War happened. The Dark Lord happened. Life happened. It’s just... it’s just the way it is now.”

“Mmm,” Potter nodded, a shadow flickering across his face. “I know how that is.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Draco agreed. “Now come on, I’m about five minutes away losing all feeling in my toes. Let’s get back.”

He reached out and closed a hand around Potter’s arm. Potter leant in to the support and they started back toward the cottage.

***

“Malfoy.”

A hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently.

“Malfoy, wake up.”

Draco startled, bolting up to sitting, narrowly missing cracking heads with Potter, who was leaning over him, looking anxious. Seeing him there, Draco suddenly felt anxious, too. Potter had never come into his room before. 

Draco blinked, trying to focus. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You were shouting in your sleep.”

“Oh.” 

Potter was looking at him expectantly, but Draco wasn’t sure what to else to say. 

“Bad dream?” Potter asked, offering an opening.

“Something like that,” Draco replied. He had no interest in recounting the details of his nightmare. It was bad enough to have to dream it, never mind talk about it.

Potter watched Draco for a moment, clearly waiting for more details. Eventually, he seemed to realise none were forthcoming, though, because he shrugged and gave Draco a small smile. “Well, you’ve woken me from nightmares so many times, I thought I should return the favour.”

“Thanks.”

Potter nodded. “I suppose I’ll go back to bed. See you the morning.”

He turned and started out of the room. Draco watched him go, feeling like he should say something, but Potter was already at the door, stepping through...

“Night, Potter,” Draco called out.

Potter paused and turned slightly to look over his shoulder at Draco. “Night, Malfoy.”

***

.vi

**March 1999**

The skies might have been clear, but March came in like a lion for Draco. Without the Dreamless Sleep, his nights were difficult. Though the nightmares weren’t as bad as they had been in the months immediately following his time in the dungeons, they were still bad enough that sleeping had become a stressful venture. He found himself lingering by the fire, not wanting to go to bed even though his eyelids were heavy and his body exhausted. The nightmares didn’t come every night but when they did, they left him sweaty and shaken. 

They also left him paranoid and his walks with Potter had become significantly less enjoyable as a result. Any time he had to be out of the house, he was edgy and tense. He was also edgy and tense inside the house. As Potter’s mobility increased, so did his desire to leave the cottage and get back to the Fight Against Evil. This, in turn, increased the number and severity of Potter’s fights with Severus, which increased _everyone’s_ irritability. Whenever Severus was at the cottage everything was shouting and slamming doors and awkward, silent meals. 

Even when Severus wasn’t around, though, Draco had a hard time feeling relaxed. His nightmares had him underslept and remembering things he’d tried very hard to forget. And his mother had been on his mind a lot, as well. Not that this was new, exactly, but ever since Potter had mentioned his meeting with her, Draco found it hard to put her from his mind. He was constantly worrying about where she was, how she was doing, if she was safe. 

And then there was the fact that Potter seemed to be _everywhere_. Granted it was a small cottage and it was hard for them to get space from each other, but recently it seemed that every time Draco turned around Potter was _right there_ , wanting to go for a walk or play Exploding Snap or just being _there_ when Draco wanted to be alone. Potter’s presence was not as aversive as Draco once would have believed, but that didn’t mean he wanted the prat around _all the time_. 

None of these problems were helped by the fact that Potter was both oblivious and an idiot. Draco strongly suspected they might be helped by him punching Potter in the head, however. He’d managed to resist the impulse so far but he was sure it was only a matter of time.

***

Potter had not shut up for over twenty minutes.

One of the things Draco enjoyed about Potter was that he wasn’t a huge talker. Potter could, surprisingly, hold a decent conversation, but he wasn’t one of those people who felt the need to fill every silence or give voice to every vague thought running through his head. 

But today...

Potter had either missed or ignored the many hints Draco had dropped in an attempt to let Potter know he wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Instead, Potter had kept up a steady stream of chatter throughout their exercise session, talking and talking until Draco wanted nothing more than to drive his fist through Potter’s teeth. Worse still, Potter was talking about his friends, telling Draco stories about Granger and Weasley as if they weren’t people who would hex Draco as soon as look at him, as if they weren’t reminders of the life Draco had lost, as if Draco would find it all amusing, these tales of their misadventures.

Draco kept silent, his mouth clamped shut so tightly his jaw was starting to ache. Potter continued to babble as they finished the last of his stretches. Then Potter was shucking off his trousers and sprawling out on the floor. 

Potter’s sharp hiss of pain when Draco applied the potion to his skin was like music to Draco’s tired ears. He savoured it, applying more of the potion and massaging it in with rough strokes, purposely pressing too hard on Potter’s tender muscles.

“Fuck!” Potter lifted his head to give Draco an admonishing look. “Jesus, Malfoy, be careful.”

Draco just smirked and kept working.

Mercifully, Potter stopped talking. He made many small grunts of protest at Draco’s rough treatment, but Draco found those quite enjoyable. Besides, he knew he couldn’t have been hurting Potter too much because a telltale erection was pressing up against Potter’s pants, just like it always did, sure as sunrise.

Draco started to avert his eyes out of habit but then he stopped, a vindictive idea coming to him. His lips curved into a nasty grin and he leant forward, holding himself above Potter, enjoying the menacing feel of it as he hung over Potter and waited.

Potter’s eyes blinked open and looked warily at Draco. “Malfoy, what are you –”

Draco’s hand reached down and closed around Potter’s cock through the cotton of his pants. His eyes never left Potter’s and his grin widened at the shocked expression he saw there.

He expected Potter to push him off, to flush bright red and make a run for the safety of his bedroom. Or maybe, better, Potter would start screaming a steady stream of obscenities like he did with Severus. Maybe he’d even be really angry. Maybe things would get out of hand. Maybe he’d shove Draco to the floor and he come after him with his fists and then Draco would have an excuse to hit him, to fight him, to smash his own fists into Potter’s body again and again. 

Draco didn’t really care what happened as long as _something_ happened, something that Potter found painful or embarrassing or both.

But none of the things Draco was hoping for happened. Potter didn’t run, didn’t scream, didn’t attack. 

Instead, Potter gave a heartfelt groan that sounded half amazed, half relieved, as if finally getting something he’d been wanting for a long time. Instead, he pushed himself up on his elbows and pressed his mouth to Draco’s with an almost desperate fervour. Then he pushed his erect cock against Draco’s palm with the guileless enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old getting his first hand job.

For a brief second, Draco froze, stunned by the unexpected response. But then one of Potter’s hands found its way between Draco’s legs and after that it was all a blur of movement and sensation, of lips and hands and hips and legs, and he probably should have been pushing Potter away and getting the fuck out of there because this was Potter, this was _him and Potter_ , but, oh, fuck, it felt so _good_ , it had been _so long_...

Potter’s hands fumbled at the waistband of Draco’s trousers, undoing them and then pulling them down, taking Draco’s pants with them. Then Potter was sliding underneath him, moving down Draco’s body, licking and nipping at Draco’s neck, at his chest, at his stomach. Potter slid further down still and licked Draco’s cock and, _oh fuck_ , his tongue was hot and wet and it felt like fire everywhere it touched. Draco’s arms threatened to give out and send him crashing down on top of Potter, but he held on, locking his elbows, and refusing to think too much about the fact that he was spreading his legs even wider to give Potter more room to get between them.

It was almost too much when Potter stretched his mouth wide and swallowed Draco’s cock whole. Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head and he gave a soft grunt, the sound impossibly small given the magnitude of the feeling. He thrust his hips forward helplessly, unable to stop himself. He heard Potter splutter and choke beneath him, felt Potter’s tongue rising up against his prick, pushing him out. Draco started to withdraw but Potter’s hands flew up and grabbed Draco’s arse, pushing his hips forward again. Draco’s cock drove deep into Potter’s mouth and they both moaned.

Potter’s hands stayed on Draco’s arse, pushing him forward, encouraging him to go deeper, harder. Draco held back, though. It had been almost two years since he’d had a blow job and he didn’t want it to end too quickly, no matter how good it felt to fuck Potter’s mouth.

Oh, god. He was _fucking Potter’s mouth_.

The thought brought him to the edge of orgasm, his balls drawing up tight. He pulled out of Potter’s mouth so fast he toppled over, falling on Potter’s legs and rolling awkwardly.

Potter sat up, a puzzled look on his face. He wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and fuck if _that_ didn’t almost tip Draco over the edge. “Something wrong?”

“Fuck me,” Draco said, and was surprised by the needy rasp in his voice. Fuck, it really had been a long time...

Potter’s eyes widened comically. “You sure?”

It was the perfect opening for a sarcastic remark about Potter’s intelligence and lack of sophistication in the bedroom but Draco was too horny to waste time on witty repartee. Wetting his lips with his tongue, he fixed Potter with a hard stare. “Fuck. Me.”

Potter scrabbled about for his wand and a second later there was a banging sound in the bathroom. A small jar came hurtling down the hallway and smacked into Potter’s outstretched hand. Draco recognised it immediately. Soothing balm. He started to voice his approval but Potter lunged forward, swallowing Draco’s words with a kiss. 

Never breaking the kiss, Potter climbed on top of him, one hand drifting back between Draco’s legs, a balm-slicked finger pressing gently against Draco’s arsehole. 

Draco smacked the hand away. “Just fuck me already,” he growled against Potter’s lips. 

Potter groaned into him for a moment and then pulled away long enough to grab Draco’s legs and haul them over his shoulders. He leant forward until Draco was nearly bent in half, his mouth against Draco’s neck, panting hot, wet breaths against Draco’s skin as he pushed inside. 

Though Potter was gentle, it still hurt – a lot even – but the hurt was what Draco wanted and so he hissed against the burning and brought his hips up to meet Potter’s, pushing himself onto Potter’s cock. He felt more than heard the small yelp Potter gave in response, and then Potter went very, very still. 

“Fuck me already,” Draco said again, and put his hands on Potter’s arse, pulling him closer, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he wriggled against Potter in an effort to get him _moving_.

Potter was still for a second more and then he complied, driving into Draco carefully but forcefully, long strokes that burned and hurt but felt so fucking good all at the same time.

It didn’t last long. Potter wrapped a clumsy hand around Draco’s cock, trying to stroke him off in rhythm and never quite getting the hang of it, but it was enough. Draco gave up trying to hold off his orgasm and let it come. It blurred through him so fast it was almost painful and then Potter was coming too, grimacing and making a strangled sound before collapsing on top of Draco, sweaty and panting. 

Potter rolled off of him, landing in a boneless heap on the floor beside Draco, one arm stretched across Draco’s stomach, his hand curled against Draco’s hip.

They lay like that for a while, coming down, drifting in that post-orgasm haze, peaceful and sated. Potter shifted a bit, getting more comfortable, but his arm stayed curled around Draco’s waist and Draco didn’t tell him to move it.

***

As it turned out, if one was stuck in the middle of nowhere with only Harry Potter available to fuck, one could do a lot worse.

While it was obvious that Potter wasn’t all that experienced, he was a quick study and what he lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm. And stamina. Moreover, Potter was open to doing anything. He’d fuck Draco anywhere – in the shower, bent over the kitchen table, up against the wall in the hallway when they just couldn’t make it to the bedroom. He was just as happy to fuck as be fucked, though some days he had a preference and would fight for it hard enough that it sparked their competitive natures, making it into a game of conquest and submission. Though, really, it wasn’t as though either of them actually lost. 

In fact, Potter was open to most games. He’d let Draco tie him up, boss him around, pull his hair, and bite him. And he’d tie Draco up, boss him around, pull his hair, and bite him. Once Draco even convinced Potter to put his hands around Draco’s neck while they fucked, squeezing just enough that Draco’s vision greyed out as he came. Potter refused to do it a second time, but Draco was confident he could convince him, given time and the right motivation.

The best thing about Potter by far, though, was his intensity. Whatever the game, whatever his role, Potter fucked with an intensity that left no room for anything else. When they fucked, Draco was overwhelmed by sensation. All else disappeared – all thoughts of his time in the dungeons, his missing mother running for her life, his father rotting in the ground, the months – maybe even years – of isolation that stretched ahead of Draco while he hid in the cottage, the hard, unrelenting misery that had become his life – it all burned away under Potter’s hands and lips and teeth until there was nothing left but sharp, sparking pleasure-pain. 

Yes, one could do a lot worse.

***

“Undo me.”

Draco lifted his head from Potter’s shoulder to find green eyes fixed on him. Potter’s face looked grim for someone who’d just had an orgasm. 

Draco rolled his eyes and groped around for his wand. Finding it, he gave it a lazy flick in the direction of the headboard, Vanishing the ropes that held Potter there. Potter’s arms fell heavily against the mattress. 

For a moment, they both just lay there, panting. Then Potter squirmed out from underneath Draco. Draco moaned a little in protest but rolled over to make more room for them to lie side by side. Instead of lying down, though, Potter sat up and rubbed at his wrists, a scowl on his face.

Draco frowned, irritated. It wasn’t like Potter to be such a baby about a bit of rope burn. “Something the matter?”

“It doesn’t always have to be like this, you know,” Potter said.

“Like what?”

Potter stared at him for a minute before getting out of bed and leaving the room.

***

The afternoon had started out promisingly. Potter had emerged from a late shower and dried off in the main room, providing Draco with a very pleasant show. When he had finished, he’d dropped his towel on the floor, knelt in front of Draco and proceeded to suck him off as if Draco’s prick was made of treacle. Then he’d stood, taken Draco by the hand and led him into the bedroom. He’d pushed Draco down on the mattress and, with a few whispered spells, had him bound hand and foot to the bed. Yes, it should have been the beginning of a very enjoyable afternoon.

But somewhere along the way, it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong. Draco had liked it at first. He’d liked it when Potter had run his hands over every inch of Draco’s body – he always liked the drag of Potter’s calloused fingers against his skin. He’d liked it when Potter had sucked his toes and licked the arches of his feet, making Draco squirm and pull at his bindings. He’d liked it when Potter had kissed his way up Draco’s legs, nuzzling the backs of each knee in turn.

But then, as Potter licked and mouthed at Draco’s inner thigh, Draco started noticing the gentleness of Potter’s kisses, the tender way his hands were moving across Draco’s skin. Instead of the usual grasping and grinding and pulling, Potter was stroking and caressing. It felt wonderful, Potter’s soft touches sensitising Draco’s skin until every sweep of Potter’s fingers made him jump with pleasure, every brush of his lips made Draco moan and writhe.

Potter took his time moving up Draco’s legs, his mouth grazing over every inch of flesh. When finished there, Potter moved on to lick and nibble at Draco’s hipbones. His fingers trailed across Draco’s stomach, tracing its curves and dips, and then his mouth followed the same path. Potter made his way up Draco’s torso and across his chest, spending long minutes teasing each nipple until Draco wanted to scream.

It went on and on, Potter focusing on Draco’s collarbone, his underarms, the inside of his elbow, each one of his fingers. Potter was methodical in his attentions, leaving no place untouched, unkissed.

Draco hated it. He hated every second of it, and yet it felt too good to tell Potter to stop.

When Potter finally left off of his worship of Draco’s body and wrapped his hand around Draco’s cock, Draco nearly cried with relief. He immediately thrust up into the circle of Potter’s fist. Potter chuckled, a low, throaty sound, and gave Draco’s cock a few firm strokes before letting go. 

Before Draco could voice a complaint, Potter’s hands were back, pressing down on Draco’s hips, holding them still as Potter sucked Draco’s cock into his mouth. Draco arched up, pulling on his restraints, trying to get them to bite into his wrists, but Potter, damn him, had used something soft and silky and had tied knots that wouldn’t tighten past a certain point. Draco couldn’t get out of them but they couldn’t hurt him either.

“Fucker,” Draco breathed and he could feel Potter smile around his cock.

Draco was so distracted by his battle with his bindings and Potter’s mouth on his prick that he didn’t notice Potter’s hand creeping back between his legs until he felt a finger pressing at his arsehole. 

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. They hadn’t done this before; Draco had never let Potter do it. In part, Draco had resisted because he liked the burn, liked pain to be part of the experience, liked how it drove all thought from his head. But part of it was that there was just something too intimate, too _close_ about having someone else’s fingers _inside_ him, touching him like that. It left him feeling too open, too vulnerable... 

As Potter’s finger slid inside, his eyes locked on Draco’s. They were huge and green and reflecting back all those things Draco was feeling that he didn’t want to be feeling. 

Draco closed his eyes and turned his face away. “Stop.”

Potter paused, but didn’t withdraw his finger.

“Either fuck me or untie me,” Draco said.

Potter sighed and pulled his hand away from Draco’s body. He searched around for his wand and, finding it, Vanished the ties holding Draco to the bed.

Draco sat up quickly, putting space between them, and then fixed Potter with a glare. Potter stared back, calm and unapologetic. Draco’s lip curled in a sneer. He got up from the bed and left the room.

Potter didn’t try to stop him.

***

They next few days were the most uncomfortable they’d had together in a long time. Potter, like a true Gryffindor, tried several times to tackle the problem head on. He repeatedly searched out Draco, even going so far as to knock on Draco’s door, and tried to talk to him about what had happened in the bedroom. Draco had shut him out every time, simply walking away whenever Potter tried to speak to him. Eventually, Potter had given up and now they just ignored each other as much as possible. They didn’t avoid each other – Draco refused to adjust his activities because of Potter and suspected Potter felt the same – they just didn’t interact. Draco didn’t help Potter with his exercises, didn’t go with him on his walks, didn’t share meals with him. He just moved through his daily routine as if he was alone in the cottage and tried not to think about how much he’d like to punch Potter in the face every time he saw him.

The worst part was, Draco couldn’t say precisely _why_ he was angry. Yes, Potter had pushed him, had knowingly tested Draco’s limits, but in the short time they’d been sleeping together, Draco had done the same to him, several times, even. And Potter had stopped when Draco told him to. He’d been an arse about it, sure, but he’d stopped. So, rationally, he knew Potter hadn’t done anything wrong. Not really.

No, it was more just the situation itself. Things had been going fine. They’d been getting along, the sex had been fantastic. Draco had actually been enjoying spending time with Potter. And now it was all ruined. Now there was this _thing_ , between them, Potter’s implicit demand for some kind of emotional reciprocity and Draco’s refusal to comply. Draco didn’t know what bothered him more, that Potter expected some sort of intimacy with him or the fact the Potter knew him well enough to know that he was asking for something Draco found hard to give. Because if Potter knew him that well, then he already had something Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to give. There was already an intimacy there.

And as for the other, it was just too hard to think about. There was already too much between them. He already felt too many things for Potter, was already linked to him in too many ways. Counting all the threads that tied them together seemed like a bad idea. It could only serve to tighten the knots, could only make it harder to untie all those threads later on.

***

It was late into the night when it started. Draco was still awake, sitting by the fire, trying not to ruminate on what a complete arsehole Potter was, when the sound of Potter’s moaning drifted down the hallway.

Draco gritted his teeth. There was no way he was going in there. Potter was just going to have to ride out whatever twisted visions his subconscious was supplying. 

The moaning grated on Draco’s nerves, the sound rising and falling with a keening edge that threatened to break through, to turn it into _that_ sound, the one that took him straight back to the dungeons, to the pain and the hopeless terror...

Draco’s head fell forward and he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Fuck you, Potter, you fucking...” 

With a sigh, Draco pushed out of his chair and started down the hall. 

Potter was curled up on the mattress, his blankets mostly kicked off, trailing onto the floor. His hair was wild, sticking out at all angles, contrasting starkly with the white pillow. His forehead was sheened with sweat. As Draco watched, Potter’s eyes and mouth twitched and then he choked out that knife-edged wail.

Draco grimaced and then, sighing again, stripped off his trousers and jumper and climbed into the bed.

Potter jolted awake as the mattress dipped with Draco’s weight. He turned bleary eyes on Draco, his confusion obvious. “Draco?”

“You were hoping for someone else?” Draco grumbled and reached across Potter to retrieve the fallen blankets.

“What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like?”

“But I thought you –”

Draco cut him off. “Just shut up and go back to sleep.”

“Er, okay,” Potter said, shooting Draco one last puzzled look before closing his eyes and burrowing back down into his pillow.

Draco pulled the blankets over them both. After a moment, he turned towards Potter and slung an arm across his waist. Potter made a small, surprised sound but didn’t open his eyes.

Draco closed his own eyes. “I hate you, you know,” he said. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Crystal clear,” Potter replied, and Draco could hear the smile in his voice.

“Hmm,” Draco hummed, hoping it sounded disapproving and stern, but he was too tired to much care. It was so _warm_ in Potter’s bed...

He drifted off quickly and slept soundly, not waking until the sun was high in the sky.

***


	4. Chapter 4

.vii

**April 1999**

The problem with the cottage was that there was no way of escaping Potter and Severus’s fights. They were currently standing in the kitchen, shouting at each other. Draco had holed up in his room half an hour ago, casting several muffling spells for good measure, but he could still hear them clear as day.

“This is stupid! I’m fine now, completely healed. I don’t need to be here. I need to be _out there_ , bringing that bastard down!”

“How many times do you need to hear it before you get it through your extraordinarily thick skull? It is not safe for you to leave. You must wait until I’ve determined the identity of the mole. If you leave now, you risk _everything_.”

“And how much am I risking by staying? Every day I’m here is another day Voldemort’s power is growing. Every day is another day for him to make a new Horcrux.”

“I’ve told you, he has no plans to create another Horcrux. He’s stretched himself too far already. The Dark Lord pushes limits, yes, but he understands them, too.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me if that doesn’t put me at ease. Voldemort is insane. I don’t trust him to understand the limits of anything.”

Draco sighed. Maybe a shower. A nice long, hot shower. Maybe the sound of the water would drown out the shouting. Draco rummaged through his cupboard for a clean towel and then made his way to the bathroom.

By the time Draco was done his shower, everything was quiet. He went back to his room and found Potter sitting on his bed, looking sullen.

“Snape left,” Potter said.

Draco nodded. “I assumed as much from the lack of screaming.”

Potter rolled his eyes. “I just don’t get why he doesn’t understand that I need to leave. I need to be out there. Voldemort is killing people, now, today. Muggles and half-bloods and –” He cut off, pushing a hand through his hair. “Innocent people are _dying_ and he expects me to just sit here, just _wait_...”

Draco pulled off the towel he had knotted around his waist and used it to rub at his hair. “I know you’re frustrated, Potter, but you can’t save anyone if you’re dead. Just give it a little longer.”

Potter watched Draco for a minute, his eyes moving over Draco’s body with interest. Draco expected Potter to reach out for him but instead Potter frowned and looked away. “Two more weeks. Two more weeks and I’m going. I don’t care what he says.”

Draco paused his drying. “What about the mole?”

“I just won’t go back to the Order. I don’t need them anyway, not really. As long as I have Ron and Hermione, I can do what I need to do.”

Draco didn’t know what to say. The idea of Potter leaving, of being at the cottage without him, bothered Draco much more than he cared to admit. He liked the idea of Potter being out _there_ even less. He knew about the prophecy, knew eventually it had to come down to a face-off between Potter and Voldemort, but that didn’t make it any easier to think about. If anything, it made it worse. No matter what they did, what anyone did, Potter was going to fight Voldemort. No matter what they did, it was all on Potter’s shoulders.

And so even if he wanted to, Potter couldn’t stay, and they both knew it. 

Draco went back to drying his hair, tossing the towel over his head so he’d have an excuse not to look at Potter for a minute.

When he re-emerged, though, Potter was waiting, his green eyes locked on Draco. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you going to stay here forever?”

Draco walked over to the door and hung his towel on the hook there. “Hopefully not forever, but, yes, for the time being I’m going to stay here.”

“Mm,” Potter hummed and Draco could hear a whole conversation he didn’t want to have in that tiny sound.

Time to change the subject.

Draco sauntered back over to the bed, stopping in front of Potter, standing so close their knees touched. “So, Potter, tell me something.”

Potter looked at him, eyebrows raised quizzically. “Yes?”

“Why am I the only one naked here?”

Potter broke into a grin and scooted back onto the bed, trying to pull off his shirt as he went. Draco laughed and reached out to help him and tried very hard not to think about what life might look like in two weeks’ time.

***

Draco hated April. It was barely better than March, really. Slightly warmer, maybe, but every bit as grey and wet and unappealing.

Potter felt differently, apparently. He was practically bouncing alongside Draco. He kept dashing ahead, running up the path and then circling back, laughing and seeming to delight in simply being outside, in simply moving. 

He was running ahead now, barely visible through the trees as Draco plodded along behind, his boots squelching in the mud.

“Bloody, stupid Potter. Bloody, stupid wet ground,” Draco grumbled. The mud sucked at his feet as though trying to pull his boots right off.

There was a rustling sound behind him. Draco froze, his hand dropping to his wand.

Then someone called his name.

“Draco?”

The voice was hard to hear, almost a whisper, but there was something familiar about it...

Draco turned to see a cloaked figure emerging from the bushes. The person straightened and pushed back the hood of the cloak, revealing a pale face and a long spill of blond hair.

Draco nearly dropped his wand. “Mum?”

“Draco?”

It seemed as though the whole world stopped around them, the woods falling silent and still as they stared at each other. For a long moment, neither of them moved, but then his mother gave a small, hitching gasp and rushed forward. She ran to him, her arms going around his waist, her forehead resting against his chest. His arms came up, closing around her automatically.

“Oh, darling,” his mother breathed. “Is it really you?”

She felt strange in his arms, smaller somehow. Maybe he’d grown since he’d last seen her or maybe his memory of her had faded. Or maybe... 

He drew back, uncertain. “Mum?”

She tilted her head up and it was his mother’s face. There was no doubt about it. Her eyes were bright, shining with tears, and she smiled at him, that familiar smile he’d been longing to see for almost two years. He pocketed his wand and then put his arms around her again, pulling her into a tight hug, his own eyes stinging. 

“Oh, my Draco, my love, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry it’s taken me so long to find you.” She stepped back, taking Draco’s hands in hers and pulling his arms open. She looked at him critically. “How have you been? Are you all right?”

Draco laughed, feeling almost dizzy. His mother was standing in front of him, holding his hands... “I’m fine. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes.” She sighed happily, letting go of one of Draco’s hands just long enough to brush away her tears. “Oh, my darling, my darling boy.”

“Draco. Step away from her.”

Draco turned to find Potter a few feet away, splattered in mud, his wand pointed at them. His face had a hard, fierce look to it that Draco hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Potter!” Draco snapped, pushing his mother behind him, putting his own body between her and Potter’s wand. “What are you –?”

“I said step away from her, Draco.” Potter’s voice threatened violence. “Now. She’s not your mother.”

Draco didn’t move. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I saw your mother, remember? Last year? She has a long scar running down the left side of her jaw.”

Draco’s mother took a step sideways, leaning around Draco’s arm so she could face Potter herself. “I appreciate your protective instinct toward my son, Mr Potter, but I assure you I am Draco’s mother. I’ve used a healing salve on that scar since we last saw each other. It was not a curse scar, it responded to the potion.”

“There,” Draco said, glaring at Potter. “You have your answer. For fuck’s sake, would you lower your wand?”

Potter’s wand remained pointed at them. “If you’re really Narcissa Malfoy, then tell me what you gave me when we met.”

His mother stared hard at Potter for a moment, an expression on her face Draco had never seen before. Then, so quickly he barely registered it, she pulled her wand from her sleeve and pressed it to Draco’s throat. She moved fully behind him, using him as a shield.

“Drop your wand, Harry, or I’ll kill him.”

Potter didn’t even blink. His wand stayed trained on them, his hand steady. “If you kill him, what leverage will you have against me?”

“Nice try,” the woman said. “I know you don’t want him to die. I know you’re sleeping with him. I’ve been watching you two for days.” She pressed her wand harder against Draco’s throat, the tip of it digging in painfully. “Now, unless you want him to die – and just for you, I’ll make it very, very slow and very, very painful – drop your wand.”

Draco could see Potter thinking fast, trying to figure out the best course of action. As if seeing the same thing, the woman pressed herself tighter against Draco’s back, making it impossible to hit her with a spell without also hitting Draco. She was so close to him that, even through his robes, Draco could feel the shape of her body, soft full breasts and a round, protruding stomach. Not his mother’s body. She wore his mother’s face, but not his mother’s body. Not Polyjuice then. A Glamour, perhaps?

“Who are you?” Potter asked, his voice pulling Draco away from his thoughts.

The woman gave a surprised laugh. “What on earth makes you think I’ll tell you that?”

Potter shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t evildoers usually run off at the mouth, spilling their plans?”

“Only if they’re stupid.”

She shifted behind him, jostling Draco’s arm. As his hand brushed against his leg, Draco felt something in his pocket. His wand. He gave an inward groan at his own stupidity. How could he have forgotten about his own wand?

He couldn’t pull it from his pocket without her noticing but if he could wiggle the tip free, could angle it toward her. _Dear god let it be right end up_ , he thought. He covertly ran his thumb along the shape of it, nearly sagging in relief when he found it was indeed facing the right direction. Keeping his movements as small as possible, he pressed against his pocket, trapping the wand against his thigh. Then hooked a finger under the end of it, pushing it slowly upwards. 

Potter and the woman were still talking, trading jibes. _Keeping talking, Potter_ , Draco thought. _I only need a few more seconds._ His wand was almost in position. The tip of it had cleared his pocket. He just needed to tilt it a little bit and shift his weight to his other hip...

He couldn’t see the wand but he did his best to aim it at her torso and concentrated on the silent spell. _Stupefy._

Whether she noticed Draco’s wand or whether it was just chance, Draco had no idea, but at the last second, the woman moved behind him, twisting away from the tip of Draco’s wand so that the spell missed the mark, barely grazing her arm. She shouted and her arm trembled, but it wasn’t enough to make her fall or even to make her lose her hold on Draco. Her wand never dropped from Draco’s throat. 

For a moment, Draco thought he had failed completely, but then he heard a choking sound, felt her shifting around behind him. Something was happening. 

The woman’s wand still at his throat, Draco couldn’t turn around, so he couldn’t see it clearly, but in his peripheral vision he noted the long, blond hair drawing up, changing colour. He saw the pale skin of the arm that held him darken to a tawny gold. And he saw the look of mounting horror on Potter’s face.

“Tonks?” Potter’s voice was barely more than a whisper. 

Tonks. Draco’s mind whirled as he tried to place the name. It came to him: Nymphadora Tonks, the cousin he’d never met. Draco didn’t know much about her, but he knew enough to understand Potter’s shock.

Tonks laughed, flat and humourless. “Wotcher, Harry.”

“You’re the spy?”

Draco felt Tonks shrug behind him. 

“But you’re an Auror,” Potter said, sounding bewildered. “You hate the Dark Arts.”

“I wish it was all that simple...” Tonks said. She sounded genuinely sad as she spoke but the tip of her wand stayed tight against Draco’s throat.

“But your parents! Your mother left that life, hated it so much she left her family behind. You’re father is a _Muggle_.”

“I know,” Tonks said. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

Potter blinked. “What?”

“Bloody hell, Harry! Do you have any idea what’s going on out there? While you were on the run, the Dark Lord took over the Ministry. In the last few months, he’s taken control of all of wizarding Britain. Muggle Britain, too; they just don’t know it yet. It’s over. The fighting will go on for months, maybe even years, but the outcome is already decided. The Dark Lord won. We lost.”

Potter’s jaw set at that, his faltering wand arm snapping back up, straight and strong. “Nothing is over yet.”

Tonks sighed and Draco thought he felt her shake her head. “I know you believe that. It’s one of the things I’ve always admired about you. So determined to believe that good _will_ win out over evil. But the world doesn’t work that way. It was a fluke last time, with you and your parents. This time, there will be no eleventh hour save. It’s done. All that’s left to be seen is who survives and who doesn’t.”

Potter gave her a look of such contempt, Draco half expected Tonks to drop her wand and beg forgiveness. “And you’re going to make sure that you survive, no matter what, is that it? You know, I always assumed you’d be out there fighting till the very end. I never pegged you as a selfish coward.”

Tonks was silent a moment and then she laughed.

Potter glared at her. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Nothing I’d expect you to understand, anyway. I know what this looks like to you. I wish you were right.” Tonks’s voice grew louder as she spoke, tinged with desperation. “I wish I was just a selfish coward and you really were going to save the world. But you’re not. You’ve lost. Don’t you get it? You’ve lost. You’re going to die. You’re going to die and so is everyone around you and I can’t let that happen. I’ve already lost so much. I have to protect what’s left, protect my family, my...”

And then Draco put the pieces together. The rounded belly against his back, the sudden change of allegiance, the anguish. “She’s pregnant, Potter.”

Potter stared at him and then at Tonks. 

“Is that true?” Potter asked, back to sounding bewildered. “You’re pregnant?”

“Yes, I am,” Tonks replied. “And before you ask, it’s Remus’s. He’s dead, you know.” She paused for a moment and Draco could hear her snuffling behind him. When she spoke again, her voice was strained and full of tears. “He’s dead. God, Harry, he’s dead and my father’s dead. They were killed the same day. _The same bloody day._ And not just them. Half the Order is dead. Mad-Eye, Emmeline Vance, Hestia Jones. Fred Weasley.”

Potter paled. “Fred?”

“Yes, Fred was killed and George badly injured. And Bill’s gone missing. Everything’s just...” Tonks was crying openly now, shuddering against Draco’s back. “I only found out I was pregnant the day before Remus was killed. I never even got a chance to tell him. He never knew he was going to have a child. And my father. It was horrible, what they did to him. No one should ever have to see their father like that. It was...” 

Tonks trailed off, presumably struggling against the memory of her father’s death. Draco found her grief hypocritical. It couldn’t possibly be worse than what they had planned for Potter, what she was going to help them to do. He didn’t say anything, though, mindful of the wand at his throat.

Tonks hiccoughed and gasped and Draco felt her wiping at her tears. “A few weeks after Remus and my father were killed, my mother was hauled in by the Ministry, brought in for questioning about blood status and blood crimes and I don’t even know what else. They weren’t going to let her out. She was never going to get out. They were going to lock her in Azkaban and keep her there until she died. And I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified and devastated and I didn’t know what to do and then you showed up on my doorstep and it was like a sign. An answer to all my problems.”

“So glad I could help,” Potter said sarcastically. 

Tonks shook her head again. “I know how it must seem, but if you knew what it’s really like out there, you’d understand. You’re already dead, Harry. You’re already dead, but my baby’s not. When I brought you to him the first time, the Dark Lord promised me. He promised to free my mother. He promised to protect us, my mother, my baby, and me. If I bring you back with me, he’ll keep his promises. I know he will.”

Potter just stared at her. “Are you joking? Voldemort won’t keep his promises. He’s not going to help your mother. She’s a blood traitor! She married a _Muggle_. And your baby? The child of a half-blood and a _werewolf_. Do you have _any idea_ what he’ll do to your baby?”

“He won’t do anything to my baby if I bring him you!” she cried, hysteria rising in her voice. “I can trade you for the safety of my child and my mother. I know she’s made mistakes, but she’s still a Black. We all are. That still means something.”

“Did he tell you that? Because he’s lying, Tonks. He’ll kill them. He’ll kill your mother. He’ll kill your baby. He’ll kill you.”

“It’s still the best chance I’ve got. It’s the _only_ chance I’ve got. I’m sorry, Harry. I really, really am, but you were never going to win anyway. You were always going to die. At least this way, my family gets to live.” Tonks took a deep breath and tightened her hold on Draco. When she spoke again, her voice was hard. “Now, let’s finish this. Put down your wand. If it’s not on the ground in ten seconds, I’m going to start hurting him.”

Potter’s eyes darted between Tonks and Draco, and Draco could see him hesitating, unsure what to do. Potter’s wand hand trembled and Draco knew with absolute certainty that Potter would hand himself over to Tonks rather than risk Draco getting hurt. 

Fucking Gryffindors.

“Don’t you dare, Potter,” Draco shouted. “Don’t you fucking dare give in to this insane bitch.”

Tonks jabbed him with her wand. “Shut up, Malfoy.”

“Draco, I –”

There was a soft pop behind them followed by a brilliant flash of red light, and then Draco was being shoved forward, knocked to his knees by the force of Tonks falling to the ground. Twisting around, he saw Severus striding out from the trees, his face a mask of fury. Potter was rushing forward, shouting to Draco and then yelling something at Severus and then both of them were helping him to his feet, checking him for injuries. 

Once he was satisfied that Draco was okay, Potter dropped down into the mud beside Tonks, turning her gently onto her back. He checked for a pulse. From the look of relief that came over his face, Draco assumed that he found one. Draco watched as Potter wiped the mud from Tonks’s face with one hand, the other resting on the swell of her belly. Potter whispered something to her that Draco couldn’t hear, but it didn’t matter. The look on Potter’s face said enough.

***

“Are you sure you’re going to be all right here?” Potter asked for what had to be the tenth time.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure I can survive a few hours without you here while you take care of things.”

“And you’re sure you don’t want to come with me?”

“I think you have quite enough to handle without trying to explain me to the Order.”

Potter gave a long sigh and scrubbed at his face. He looked every bit as exhausted as Draco felt. “I know. I just don’t like the idea of leaving you here by yourself.”

“Potter, you seem to be under the mistaken assumption that I am five years old. I can take care of myself.” 

Potter gave him a worried look. 

Draco shoved him. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, just go already. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Potter dithered about a few minutes longer but eventually he left, Apparating to the Order’s headquarters, taking Tonks with him. 

As soon as he’d gone, Draco collapsed onto the sofa and closed his eyes. Merlin, but he was tired.

It had taken hours to work out a plan. As usual, Severus and Potter couldn’t agree on how to handle the situation. Potter refused to do anything that might endanger Tonks’s baby and wanted to take her back to the Order. Severus wanted to take more drastic measures. In the end, they’d decided Potter would take her to the Order for questioning and then Obliviate her. After that, they’d let the Order decide what to do with her. That sorted, Severus had taken his leave, anxious to return to Voldemort, hoping to save his cover as double agent. Draco had been trying hard not to think about what might happen if he failed.

Draco tossed restlessly on the sofa. After the hours of arguing, the cottage seemed eerily quiet. The sound of his clothes moving against the sofa cushions as he shifted about seemed unnaturally loud, as did the rasp of his breathing. It was unnerving.

The sun was sinking in the sky, the late afternoon light giving way to long shadows. It would be time for dinner before too long. Draco pushed off of the sofa and walked to the kitchen. He scrounged through the pantry, trying to decide if he felt like eating. Nothing appealed to him though. In the end, he settled for a large glass of water. He’d cook something later, if he felt like it.

He leant against the counter and sipped his water slowly as he tried to think of what to do with his evening alone. He drew a blank. What did he used to do with his time before Potter arrived?

He drained his glass and set it in the sink.

Potter would be at the Order’s headquarters by now, probably already in the thick of it. His arrival would have caused a stir. As far as the Order knew, he’d been missing for months. And showing up with Tonks in tow, probably still unconscious...

Draco’s mind went back to the woods, those first few seconds after Tonks, looking like his mother, had stepped out of the bushes. 

_“Oh, darling. Is it really you?”_

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. 

_“Oh, my Draco, my love, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”_

He felt his chest and throat tighten. His face felt hot, his nose suddenly congested...

Fuck it. Fuck it all. 

Draco blinked against the gathering tears. He went to the bathroom and searched through the medicine cabinet, pulling out several phials. He emptied them quickly, drinking their contents back one after the other until they were done – two Calming Draughts, a Sleeping Draught, Dreamless Sleep. 

Let Severus say what he wanted about it in the morning. Tonight, Draco was going to sleep and he wasn’t going to dream.

***

The room was dark when Draco woke, pulled out of sleep by the feel of a hand moving down his arm and someone pressing against his back.

Potter was home.

He placed his hand over Potter’s.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Potter whispered, his breath tickling against the back of Draco’s neck.

“Then perhaps you should have left off molesting me in my sleep,” Draco mumbled, his voice thick and drowsy.

“Prat.”

Draco turned over, shifting back a bit so he could see Potter’s face in the darkness. “How did it go?”

Potter let out a long sigh. “Fine, eventually. It wasn’t easy. They didn’t want to believe me. In the end, we had to give her Veritaserum, but after that, well, they couldn’t really not believe me.”

“Did they Obliviate her?”

“Yeah. They took a lot more than I wanted them to. She won’t remember much of her time with Remus...”

“You’re feeling sorry for her?” Draco asked, disbelief chasing away the last of his sleepiness. “Potter, she was going to take you to Voldemort. She was going to kill me.”

“It’s not her,” Potter protested. “I mean, I do feel bad for her in a way but... It’s just, her baby. It’s hard that she won’t be able to tell her baby about his father. She knew him better than anyone, you know. Most of the people who knew him are dead...” Potter trailed off with a shrug. “I know what it’s like to grow up not knowing your parents. Remus’s child deserves more than that. Remus deserves more than that.”

“So what’s going to happen to Tonks now?”

“They’re holding her at Headquarters. They have a bunch of spells on her. I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening at that point. But she’s not going anywhere until the war is long over.”

“And she didn’t tell anyone else where you are?”

Potter shook his head. “No. It’s kind of a long story. She didn’t really know I was here as much as she made a lucky guess. From what she told us, the Death Eaters all believe it was your mother who rescued you from the dungeons.”

Draco froze at Potter’s words, his heart jumping into this throat. He closed his eyes, unable to look at Potter. He’d never considered that Potter might learn about his time in the dungeons... 

If Potter noticed Draco’s reaction, he gave no sign of it, continuing on without pause. “They never questioned it. But Tonks wasn’t around then. When she heard the story, she thought it sounded suspicious, both of us being rescued in the same way. She took a guess that we’d been rescued by the same person, that we were hidden away in the same place. No one else had any idea where I was and she had nothing to lose. I think she figured, if nothing else, she could bring you back, maybe trade you for her mother or something. She used an obscure blood magic ritual that tracks family members. Apparently, it took her a while to find us because we were hardly ever outside of the Fidelus.”

Explanation finished, Potter fell quiet. An expectant silence hung between them. Draco said nothing, hoping the moment might pass without having to talk about it.

He should have known better.

Draco opened his eyes to find Potter looking at him. He couldn’t decipher the expression on Potter’s face. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you were held prisoner?” Potter asked, his voice soft.

Draco glanced away. “It didn’t seem important.”

“Draco...”

Draco sighed. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like thinking about it.”

Potter’s hand came up, his fingers trailing gently along Draco’s jaw and then running through his hair, pushing it back from Draco’s face. 

“I can understand that,” Potter said, nodding. 

They were quiet for several minutes. Potter stroked Draco’s hair. Draco let him, closing his eyes and relaxing into the feeling of Potter’s fingers moving across his scalp.

“How long were you there?” 

Draco kept his eyes closed as he answered. It seemed like the kind of conversation that would be easier to have with his eyes closed. “I’m not sure. The best I can figure, three weeks or so.”

“Was it...? Did they hurt you?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t as bad as what they did to you, though. I mean, they didn’t blind me or paralyse me or anything but, yeah, it was bad.”

“And Snape, he was the one that brought you here?”

“Yes. Just like with you, except without the welcoming committee.”

Potter’s hand stilled on Draco’s head and then slid down to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry.”

Draco shrugged. “Why? It’s not like it was your fault.”

“I’m just sorry you had to go through it. I’m sorry you had to deal with it alone for so long.”

Draco sighed again and opened his eyes. “Can we not talk about this anymore?”

“Sure,” Potter said, letting his hand drop back down onto the bed. “You want to go back to sleep?”

“No,” Draco said and slid closer to Potter. “I don’t want to sleep.”

Potter hummed and his arms closed around Draco, pulling him closer still. His warm tongue licked at Draco’s lips for a moment. “Good. I don’t want to sleep either.”

They didn’t rush and they didn’t play any games. They took their time, handling each other carefully, reverently. They didn’t say anything as they touched each other. There were no words growled against necks or thighs, no whispers against mouths or chests. There was only the sound of their kisses, of their bodies moving together, of their panting breaths and their soft gasps. There was only gratitude to be there, to be together, to have survived. There was only the raw honesty of it, their eyes and hands and lips saying things that their voices couldn’t. For the first time, it was all laid bare between them, and for the first time, that was the way Draco wanted it to be.

***

.viii

**May 1999**

Draco had just finished making his lunch, had just set his sandwich on the plate, when Potter strode into the kitchen, scooped up the plate, and started toward the front door.

“Come on,” he called over his shoulder.

Draco didn’t move. “What are you doing?”

Potter pulled open the front door and turned to Draco with a grin. “I’m carrying your plate for you. We’re having lunch outside.”

“Oh, are we now?” 

“Yes, we are,” Potter replied, a determined tilt to his chin. 

“Well, sorry to spoil your plans, Potter, but I have no intention of eating my lunch outside. I’m quite happy where I am.”

Potter’s grin fell. He gave Draco a serious look. “Draco, you haven’t set foot outside the cottage since Tonks.”

“Yes, I know. With all the excitement, maybe you’ve forgotten that just because _you’re_ in the free and clear doesn’t mean _I_ am. I haven’t been outside because it’s not safe for me outside. I still need the Fidelius, even if you don’t.”

Potter shook his head. “The Death Eaters have no idea where you are and they don’t care. Tonks told us that much. You can’t just sit in here all the time. It’s not good for you. Besides, it’s gorgeous out.” Potter’s grin came back and he licked his lips at Draco. “Come on. I’ll make it worth your while...”

Draco looked out the window. It did look like a nice day – clear sky, lots of sunshine. He glanced back at Potter who was shamelessly giving Draco a come-hither look _and_ waving his sandwich at him. Clearly, Potter was at least part Slytherin. 

Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. “Fine, but I’m only going as far as the garden. If you want to have one of your bloody romps through the woods, you’re going on your own.”

Potter’s grin stretched into a wide, brilliant smile. “Deal.”

When Draco stepped out into the garden and saw that Potter had spread out a blanket, he almost turned around and went back inside. There were things he was willing to put up with for a meal and a blow job, but picnicking on the lawn like silly, giggling girls was not one of them.

As though sensing his thoughts, Potter’s hand snaked out and grabbed Draco’s wrist. 

“Just sit,” he said.

Draco sat, but he glared at Potter to make sure his opinion was known.

They sat together and Draco ate his sandwich while they talked about nothing in particular. After a while, Potter stretched out on the blanket, his hands behind his head, his face turned up to the warm May sun. After only a moment’s hesitation, Draco did the same. 

Potter squinted over at him. “Why are you so far away?” he asked, and flopped an arm out towards Draco.

Draco rolled his eyes but slid over until he was tucked against Potter’s side. Potter grinned and pulled him even closer.

It was mortifying, really, to be taking part in such a scene. The sort of things first-year Hufflepuffs would think was romantic. It made Draco queasy just to think about it.

The sun was nice, though...

Draco was just starting to drift off when he felt Potter turn onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. A moment later, Draco felt gentle fingers combing through his hair.

“You are such a girl, Potter,” he said.

He didn’t need to open his eyes to know Potter was grinning down at him. 

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly hear you telling me to stop.”

Draco gave a lazy half-shrug. “Who am I to deny you your pleasures?”

“Mmm,” Potter hummed, his fingers still moving through Draco’s hair. “Very selfless of you.”

“I hear the sarcasm in your voice. I’m the very embodiment of altruism, I’ll have you know.”

Potter didn’t say anything to that and his hand kept moving through Draco’s hair, soft and soothing. They stayed like that for a while, pressed together, warm in the sunshine, and Draco started to drift towards sleep again.

But then Potter’s hand stilled and dropped away. “Draco...” he said, and Draco could hear it in his voice. It was time for the talk, the one he’d been dreading for days.

Draco kept his eyes closed. He couldn’t look at Potter. “You’re leaving.”

He felt Potter nodding. “I have to. I’m back to normal, we’ve got Tonks. The threat is gone. There are people counting on me. I have to go back. I should have left already.”

Draco sighed. “Yeah, I know.”

Potter took a shaky breath and then his muscles all tensed, as though he were gearing up for something. “Come with me. I know you’re afraid to leave here, afraid Voldemort will find you, but this place, it’s not good for you.” Potter’s words sped up, as though he was afraid Draco was going to interrupt at any second, cut him off before he could make his case. “Being shut up alone all the time, well, it would do anyone in after a while. We could keep you safe. And I could help you find your mother. We could help her, hide her. I’ll do everything I can to protect you both from Voldemort. I swear I will.”

Potter fell abruptly silent. Apparently, that was the entirety of his argument. It didn’t really matter, though, the exact words. It didn’t matter at all.

Draco opened his eyes. Potter was leaning over him, his face less than a foot away from Draco's. His eyes were wide and hopeful and looked so green, as though taking the colour from the newly unfurled leaves above him or the fresh blades of spring grass –

Draco blinked.

Everything was green. 

He looked around him. He could have sworn the trees still held heavy, closed buds, but they didn’t. They were full of leaves, tender spring leaves that still had that delicate, new look to them, their green still tinged with yellow, their texture still soft. All through the garden, small shoots were pushing up through the dark soil, tight buds at their tips, hints of colour just starting to seep through their edges. And the grass around them was no longer brown and flat from a winter underneath the snow. It was green, a strong, vibrant green, already surprisingly full and lush. 

When had this happened, this awakening? How had he missed it?

“Draco?”

Draco looked back to Harry, who now wore an anxious expression. 

Draco smiled at him and, closing his eyes, reached up to pull him down into a kiss. “Okay, Harry,” he murmured. “I’ll come with you.”

When Draco opened his eyes again, Harry was only inches away, so close he blocked all else from view, so close he was all Draco could see. Just Harry smiling at him, looking at him with those eyes. 

Everything was green.

~ The End ~


End file.
